


Unremarkable

by HumsHappily



Series: Happy Accidents: Coincidences of The Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is a BAMF, Complete, Eventual Series, F/F, F/M, Greg is divorced, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Marriage, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is a pining baby, Not Really Character Death, Supernatural Elements, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumsHappily/pseuds/HumsHappily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is completely unremarkable to anyone who does not matter.<br/>Gregory Lestrade is about to have Mycroft's world turned upside down.<br/>And Mycroft is more than a little worried he likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anthea Speaks

Mycroft Holmes holds a very minor position in the British government. Few people are aware that Mycroft Holmes is even real. On the very few occasions when he walks through the offices of parliament he has heard his own name whispered fearfully, sometimes reverently, seen the sharp intakes of breath that occurred upon recognition. Recognition, of course, did not come all that often as most people believed that Mycroft Holmes was a code name for a ghost branch of MI6. Frankly, the thought that one person could be so…effective in the daily running of the government was astounding. So people say, the truth of course we know.

No, Mycroft Holmes had gone through his whole life pretending to be unremarkable. In many ways his life was. His suits, unremarkable. Cars, unremarkable. Family, well, one can only go so far in controlling the intelligence of others. His house, though he had enough funds to purchase property wherever he wished, was indeed unremarkable. At least it was from the outside. However, upon entering one would find themselves beset by the security team that resided in the basement. Assuming one had passed the five point examination by security and managed to make it further into the house, one would often be astonished by what they found. Entering the house of Mycroft Holmes was not a common occurrence for anyone other than Sherlock and Mummy and Father Holmes. Only very recently had John Watson been encouraged to partake in the great adventure that was the property, and he had gone no further than the first room.  
Upon walking past the security check, one would find themselves in a small den, known as The White Room. Wide windows of bulletproof glass lined the facing wall, showing an idyllic back yard, perfectly trimmed and maintained. A white leather couch faced the left wall, which is covered in the art of up and coming London artists. Cream-colored walls complimented the light blue curtains and carpet. For normal people this room being so open, light and airy, would draw them in.  
However, if one were to ignore the open room and turn to the door set into the left wall, you would find yourself in a long hallway. Walking past the doors leading to bedrooms and bathrooms, a well-furnished kitchen and a media room, you will find yourself at the end of the hallway. Assuming you know that Mycroft Holmes is not, and will never be an unremarkable man, you will examine the table set at the end of the hallway with care.

  
Under the shell of a small Nautilus, a hinged compartment holds an electronic keypad. If one were to type in the first thirteen numbers of the Fibonacci sequence, which happens to be the current password, a door will swing open to your right. This door, set very cleverly into the wall to hide its existence, leads to another hallway. Thirteen and a half feet down there is another door, this time on your left. If one were able to pass the fingerprint scan embedded in the doorframe, this door would slide open on oiled hinges and admit you to Mycroft Holmes favorite room.

  
When the door first slides open, you will see bookshelves lining the wall facing you. From top to bottom, the shelves of light honey walnut are filled with classics, dramas, fiction, and biographies. Any genre of book you could wish for is represented in at least ten volumes. The one thing Mycroft Holmes allows himself to exhibit sentiment for is books. Walking further into the room you will often find Mycroft himself sitting in a very comfortable armchair, with a glass of scotch, flipping through CCTV footage of his family and all their associates. The beams from the hidden skylight will be playing across the plush carpet and couch of his favorite room, beckoning Mycroft to sit down and pick up the book that was left to sit, tagged with a silk bookmark on the coffee table.  
However, Mycroft Holmes does not have eyes for the pages of his favorite book today. His eyes are glued to a solitary silver haired figure that has appeared in the CCTV feed of 221B Baker Street and is engaging in heated conversation with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. This is where this story begins.  
For if you are ever lucky enough truly know Mycroft Holmes, you would know that his favorite books are dramatic romances, though the man himself would never admit it.

~Anthea


	2. Solidarity among Madmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's wife has handed him a bag and signed divorce papers. Where else does he go but to his friends at 221B?

"Sherlock!" Gregory Lestrade yelled, running his hands through his silver hair in frustration. Standing in the den of 221B Baker Street shouting at Sherlock Holmes was not an uncommon experience for the DI, however in this instance it was a most unpleasant experience. 

"Why do you insist on being so stubborn and irritating, Sherlock?" A mellow voice from the kitchen doorway made its way into the fray as John Watson entered carrying a tray with three mugs of tea. 

"He is staying with us whether you like it or not. You owe me after the incident with the metatarsals in my new tea kettle and I'm calling in the favor." 

Huffing, Sherlock threw himself onto the couch. Greg settled himself in Sherlock's chair, a petty retaliation.  
"That was never agreed on and in any case-" 

"Shut up and drink Sherlock" said John drily, pointedly placing a mug of tea next to the couch. 

"So Greg" John continued handing a mug over to the DI and settling down with his own. "Wanna talk about it?" 

"Not really John" Greg replied taking the mug gratefully.  
"Not much to say. She just handed me the papers already signed and gave me a bag already packed."

Sherlock scoffed from the couch.  
"Really Gavin. She's been sleeping with the music teacher for three months now and the grocer for five.  
The grocer and the teacher both have been in your flat and both are aware that she is married and both gave her the ultimatum that she would have to leave you. They of course, are fearful because of your place on the police force. It's obvious from the socks she wore while dropping fresh fruit to your office last week. Slight twinge of guilt, overcome by the recent copulation. Any moron could see this divorce was coming." 

"Sherlock" came a warning tone from the armchair. "We morons do not appreciate being notified of our idiocy. And his name is Greg"

Greg just looked a bit pained at the whole exchange. Glancing over at him Sherlock gave a sigh and continued. 

"Given my previous interactions with the victims of a cheating spouse, telling you the grocer and the teacher are sleeping with each other as well will encourage you to move on and give you a sense of justification."

At his words the other two men spat out their tea and glanced at each other. As their eyes met the pair began to laugh, much to the irritation of Sherlock. 

"How about a proper drink to celebrate and let your justifiable rage out then Greg?" Snorted John Watson into his mug. "We'll let Sherlock stay sober." 

"Excellent" came the response from the DI.

 

\---------  
Three hours later, at exactly ten o'clock John Watson and Gregory Lestrade were well on their way to being thoroughly plastered. Beers followed by a bottle of very fine scotch had made an appearance and John was wholeheartedly teasing Lestrade about the possibility of a rebound lover. Lestrade was in turn teasing John about the possibility of getting any lover past the possessive consulting detective. 

While the drunken banter was going on the consulting detective in question was perched silently on his arm chair, examining the two men in front of him. 

"Bored!" He exclaimed suddenly drawing the attention of the other two. 

"Sherlockk", drawled John. "You're always bored."

"Yeah" Greg concurred, quite happy to poke some fun at the detective.

"I find it very hard to remain stimulated when my company is steadily removing their brain cells through drink." 

"Whatever Sherlock. Keeping you entertains is not my....div...division."  
Hiccuping slightly the DI settled back into his chair. Face dropping slightly he continued in a remorseful tone.  
"Don't even know what my division is anymore. Wife gone, no kids, hanging out with a sociopath and the only bastard mad enough to put up with him. " 

At this expression of sentiment, Sherlock got up and left, making a beeline for his microscope. 

"Go on Greg. You only need to get back out there and find someone else. Plenty of fish in the...sea" came the slightly slurred statement of the mad bastard himself, "Find a nice fellow or lady. Walk right up and go home with them" 

Greg glared over at his friend. "Hypocritical ass" he pronounced with shocking eloquence considering their state of drunkenness. "When was the last time you went home with someone?" 

"Don't hafta bother do I?" Said John yawning, "Sherlock doesn't let me keep anyway around anyway. If he weren't married to his work I'd say he was jealous. You should do it though Greg. Promise the next person you find attractive and single you'll ask them out. No matter what. I don't care if it's the bloody Queen of England." 

"Oh, but she isn't single is she?"  
Said John blinking slowly. "I must have deleted that. 'M turning into Sherlock you know." 

"Anyway" continued John. "Promise Greg."

"Promise" grumbled Greg, turning red. "But you better find someone too."

The men raised their glasses in a show of solidarity. Tipping back a pleasant swig Greg's attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Alongside the footsteps however was a sound that made Greg's drunken animal brain go into overdrive. The sound of a long black umbrella sliding along the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hasn't been beta-d.
> 
> Written on mobile because my computers gone down, so I will be editing later on. 
> 
> Kudos, comment, and otherwise rate for my undying love and affection.


	3. The Alcohol Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is in the flat and Greg does something really, really, ballsy.   
> Mycroft doesn't respond.   
> Visibly...

Mycroft Holmes was quite possibly the oddest man Gregory had ever found attractive. It wasn't really that Myrcoft was odd, he was just...odd.  
Unique in many ways.   
The three piece suits Greg hated on anyone else worked for Mycroft. Mycroft wore them like a second skin. It gave off a sense of power and poise that was strangely comforting instead of the sense that the man was trying too hard.   
Greg's normal "body type" were tanned men and women, blond haired and fit. But Mycroft with his pale skin and dash of freckles was different. His flop of ginger hair was something Greg was dying to run his fingers through. And those eyes. God, Greg could lose himself in those pools of blue. Plus Greg had to admit he found Mycroft's body more than a little appealing.  
The idea of actually dating Mycroft Holmes was foolish. If anything the man was more intelligent than Sherlock and held far more power. Mycroft had an unnamed position in the British government. And admittedly Greg found that a bit off putting, if just for the simple fact that Mycroft could pull rank and have the entire British police force kneeling with just a snap of his fingers. But at the same time Greg wouldn't mind kneeling for the man. Or bending or twisting or some things that were better left to think on when sober. 

 

As the door to the flat swung open, a deep baritone jarred Greg out of his thoughts. 

"You know Galway, if you do want to ask out the Queen of England, he has apparently just entered my flat."

"Really Sherlock isn't it past your bedtime?" Responded the elder brother is a posh drawl as he gazed at the tip of his umbrella. 

"Don't be concerned Sherlock. I'm here to speak with John. Nothing to do with you. I'd hate to disturb your experiment. I was not aware however that he would be so thoroughly inebriated at only ten in the evening. I will return at a later date." 

"I'm only mostly drunk Mycroft. Greg's plastered though." Came the haughty retort from the army doctor. 

When Mycroft's head turned and his gaze flickered over Greg, there was nothing he could do. Greg couldn't help himself. He blushed, from his head to his toes. 

"Ah I see. Wife gave him signed papers, kicking him out of the house. For the music teacher and the grocer? Ahh, but the wife doesn't know that her lovers are sleeping with each other does she? Have heart Gregory, she will come crawling back within three weeks." Mycroft said, eyes on the ceiling. 

"How did you know?" Greg stammered out, still blushing furiously. 

"Obvious" came an irritated voice from the kitchen. "Even without the current location of you on our couch, freshly laundered sheets and towels next to you and the divorce papers sticking out of your carry all, the turn up of your jeans and the stain on your tie would have clued anyone in."

"Enough Sherlock." John sighed wearily, "Morons remember? Besides-" 

"As I was saying!" Greg broke in angrily. " I don't plan on crawling back to her. And I certainly don't need a Holmes suggesting that I would go back after the shit she's done to me, I'm finished with her for good! So you can fuck off Mycroft Holmes!"

Sitting back after his outburst Greg looked at the expressions of the faces around him. Sherlock, utterly gleeful, John, eyebrows raised in surprise and shock. Mycroft, blank and calculating. Like always.  
Ignoring them Greg got up and stumbled his way into the bathroom.  
He stayed there, head leaning against the door until the sound of Mycroft exiting the flat rang in his ears.   
How foolish was he to go off on the elder Holmes. And just for saying that he would get back together with his wife, something he admittedly had done before. Wait a moment. Mycroft had said that she would come crawling back to him. Greg gulped at the sudden realization of just how royally he had messed up. 

Shite.


	4. British Government say what?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's opinion on the drunken mope fest at 221B.  
> Will the Holmes boys ever learn?

Mycroft Holmes did not have bad ideas. He did not engage in foolishness. Mycroft Holmes was the British Government. The epitome of class and control.   
So how was it that he found himself climbing the stairs to 221B in order to have John Watson persuade his brother to take a case that he had already solved weeks ago?  
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Anthea had smirked at him whilst notifying him of the recent update to Inspector Lestrade's file.   
There was no way that Mycroft Holmes would allow himself to feel sentiment toward anyone other than his family, and even then the capacity was limited. No man however smooth the shoulders, swarthy the skin, or silver the hair would tempt him. Or how charming the smile. No such things were definitely better left to the writers of romance novels.   
Not that he read such trivial things. 

 

As he made his way up the steps to his brothers flat, his umbrella tip brushed against the wall. Drat. His current umbrella was longer than his norm and he had hoped to arrive some what silently, if only to irk his brother. 

Pushing open the door to the flat, Mycroft Holmes stepped inside. The sight he saw was quite delicious. From the corner of his eye he could see Gregory, licking his lips almost nervously. Interesting. Filing that sight away for later review, Mycroft turned his attention over to his brothers snarky remark. 

"You know Galway, if you do want to ask out the Queen of England, he has apparently just entered my flat"  
Came a deep voice from the kitchen.

Raising his umbrella up to stare at the tip in obvious disregard, Mycroft replied in kind, while keeping an eye on the drunkards in the living room. Only ten at night and drunk on Scotch and a few beers. How very droll. 

Remarking as such to John Watson, though in less offensive terms, Mycroft was granted a boon in the sense that he had a reason to glance over at Gregory. What he saw was delicious. 

Gregory was flushed already from drink, licking his lips. As Mycroft's eyes flickered over, the flush on Greg's face growing stronger.   
Interesting. Why that reaction? Possibly embarrassment at his wife leaving? Doesn't wish for pity obviously. 

How can this issue be fixed. To show Greg there is no pity to be had from Mycroft Holmes?

"Ah I see. Wife gave him signed papers, kicking him out of the house. For the music teacher and the grocer? Ahh, but the wife doesn't know that her lovers are sleeping with each other does she? Have heart Gregory, she will come crawling back within three weeks." Mycroft said, eyes to the ceiling in order to avoid anyone noticing the faint haze of anger in them. A man such as Gregory Lestrade did not deserve a wife with such poor morals. 

"How did you know?" Greg stammered out on the other side of the room. 

"Obvious" came an irritated voice from the kitchen. "Even without the current location of you on our couch, freshly laundered sheets and towels next to you and the divorce papers sticking out of your carry all, the turn up of your jeans and the stain on your tie would have clued anyone in."  
Hmm. Mycroft had discounted the tie since it was pocketed. Not fair Sherlock. 

"Enough Sherlock." John sighed wearily from his chair. John really was quite adept at handling his brother. Ought to ensure he got a raise from the clinic.   
"Morons remember? Besides-" 

 

"As I was saying!" Greg broke in angrily. " I don't plan on crawling back to her. And I certainly don't need a Holmes suggesting that I would go back after the shit she's done to me, I'm finished with her for good! So you can fuck off Mycroft Holmes!"

Mycroft allowed no more than a brief flicker of shock to cross his face before he schooled his features. Greg got up and stomped his way to the restroom. 

 

"Oh brother you haven't" came a gleeful voice from the kitchen.

"No, I haven't Sherlock. Grow up."  
Mycroft snapped out. Control Mycroft, control! 

John Watson looking utterly bemused, broke in to the glaring contest the brothers were engaged in.   
"Sherlock what are you on about?"

"Sentiment John, Sentiment. Mycroft has found himself a goldfish! Oh this is Christmas." Sherlock exclaimed leaping up and clapping his hands. 

"And on that rather untruthful note I will be off. Dr.Watson, I will speak too you at a later date."

Mycroft made his exit, leaving Sherlock spinning around and John holding his head murmuring something along the lines of "What the hell have I gotten into. I'm too drunk for this. I'm going to kill Stamford." 

\---------

Only later did Mycroft allow himself to go back over the conversation that had occurred at 221B.  
Gregory had been flushed, eyes darting away from Mycroft, licking his lips. Nervous. Embarrassed.   
As a result of his wife leaving him. No other explanation for it. Shocking that Gregory would react the way he did. No. Something was missing.  
Sherlock had said something when Mycroft had entered the flat.   
Rummaging through his container of disposed thoughts, Mycroft realized what had been said. 

A faint echo of Sherlock's voice became a resounding roar inside his head.   
"You know Galway, if you do want to ask out the Queen of England, he has apparently just entered my flat."

Gregory Lestrade had been embarrassed. But not for the reasons Mycroft had assumed. It was something a bit more primal that had had him turning away and tightening his legs. As the phrase went Mycroft had had an opening and he blew it.   
Shite.


	5. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft does something strange after John got kidnapped and Sherlock broke someone. Greg is confused so John and Greg have a heart to heart.  
> Mycroft and Sherlock are fools and they won't admit it.  
> Everything as normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take a minute to thank everyone following this story and everyone who comments or leaves kudos. I truly do live on attention alone.

It was another month before Gregory Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes would cross paths again. Unsurprisingly, the cause was John getting kidnapped then injured and Sherlock breaking someone as a result. Also unsurprising was the fact that the person Sherlock chose to break was the son of an important man. Surprising was that the important man was allowing Greg to arrest his son. Which was very nice of him. However, the son was not as happy to be arrested and was threatening many many things of horrible nature despite a cracked rib, concussion, and sprained wrist. On top of that, he had already given Greg a nice black eye. Pleasant way to end the work week.  
Thus when Greg saw a smooth black car pull up and a bespoke clad shoe pop out followed by the tip of an umbrella, he was enormously pleased. Not only could Mycroft handle the rich man's son, he could handle Sherlock.  
Sherlock who refused to leave John's side and had nearly pummeled three paramedics already.

Greg watched from where he was directing the forensics team as Mycroft walked over to the important rich man and shared a few words. Then walked over to the son and said something to the son.  
Something that caused the boy to become very very pale and weak at the knees. Powerful people are very interesting. As the boy was trundled into the nearest ambulance, Greg noticed Mycroft's eyes flicker over toward him. Gulping, Greg motioned for Sally to take over as he walked toward the man. 

"Mr. Holmes. Uh, glad you're here. We've got it mostly settled, but if you could deal with Sherlock the paramedics would appreciate it. I think he has hissed at a few of them.."

"I cannot help my brother any longer. It seems that sentiment has him in his clutches. Once awakened in a Holmes it does not very easily let go." 

There was a short pause, during which Greg could swear that Mycroft seemed almost nervous. But that would be silly. The British Government does not get nervous. 

"I am actually here because I was a little concerned for you. I heard you were injured while protecting my brother"

Greg could do no more than stare openmouthed as the man continued.  
"You see, you have been influential in my brothers rehabilitation, second only to John Watson. It would not be beneficial for you to be injured in anyway as it would require me to find a replacement for you. It is very hard to find good men these days, especially those willing to deal with Sherlock. I would hate to see you go. Oh. And please call me Mycroft."

At that Mycroft walked away to deal with Sherlock, who was currently taking apart a male paramedic. The paramedic in question looking very close to tears. Lord have mercy but Mycroft was a force to be reckoned with. 

\-----  
Three days later, Greg and John were holed up in a pub, chugging down their third pint.  
Greg had passed on Mycroft's strange speech. John was raising an eyebrow so far that it had disappeared into his hairline.

"Mycroft said that? Mycroft Holmes, the British Government said that he would hate to see you go?"  
"Yup" responded Greg succinctly, chugging the last of his pint and signaling for another. "And that it was hard to find good men."

"Christ Greg, that's practically a marriage proposal."

Greg spluttered, choking on his mouthful of ale, while a concerned John was thumping him on the back.

"Jesus Greg I'm only joking! Unless..."

"Unless what?" Asked Greg with a gaspy breath.

"Unless you fancy him." Came the doctors response.

"John...I...fuck I think I do and I don't know what to do about it and he's all three piece suits and I'm just a divorced copper and he was right about my wife trying to come back but I didn't let her and I'm single officially and I just....fuck!"  
Greg broke off to allow John a turn to speak.  
"All that in one breath? I'm impressed. If you think it'll go somewhere I'd go for it. Can't hurt really, I mean he'll only have you deported if you refuse to work with Sherlock. Other than that you are apparently the golden boy. He likes you Greg. Maybe for more than the fact that you deal with Sherlock. I deal with Sherlock and all I've gotten is a few get out of jail free cards."

"Thanks mate. I'll think about it, but how exactly does one go about dating the British Government?"

"No idea." Replied John Watson before chugging down the last of his pint. "But listen mate, I've got to go. Sherlock has a tendency to misbehave if I've been away drinking to long, and I'd rather not have him melt the kitchen table again."

"Cheers mate. How's that going anyway?"

"Married to his work, Greg and divorced from his feelings. I'm seeing Emma again this weekend, see if that goes anywhere. Plus, Harry is bugging me about a friend of hers I meet last time I visited. His name is Edwin, an American accountant. Boring as all get with a big nose." John replied getting up from his stool and fixing his coat. "I'm not lost for choices, Greg. Just not interested in them ya know?"  
Greg snorted and waved his friend off. Benefits of being bisexual were that you weren't spoiled for choice. Though more often than not the one you wanted wasn't interested. John didn't think Sherlock even knew he was bisexual. Pain in the ass situation all around, but nice to have a friend who understood the Holmes brothers a bit more than Greg himself.

 

\----------

Meanwhile, as John and Greg were at the pub, the den of 221B was privy to a conversation between the two Holmes brothers. Which meant meaningful looks and mostly one word rebuttals.

"Goldfish Mycroft, goldfish" 

"No"

"Yes"

"Sentiment Sherlock"

"So?"

"Microscope!"

"Umbrella!"

"Redbeard"

"Inconsequential" 

"No"

"Gregory Lestrade"

"John Watson" 

The resulting staredown was only broken by the return of the aforementioned man to the flat.

"Oh hullo Mycroft" said John, having up his coat. "Um..are you staying? I can make tea." 

"He was just leaving." Sherlock huffed pointedly from his chair.

"Yes, I'm afraid there are some urgent matters to take care of. Angry Americans as such. Paperwork to do, people to see. Goodbye Dr. Watson. Brother, do think about what I've said." 

Mycroft gathered his things and made his exit just as John came in with the tea and some toast. 

"What did he have to say?" Asked John settling into his chair and passing Sherlock the toast.  
"Eat that by the way, you haven't had anything all day, and I added orange marmalade."

Ignoring the toast, Sherlock glanced over at John.  
"John. My brother has found a goldfish. I plan to make him regret ever accusing me of being overly sentimental. I do not have time for toast or tea or sleep. I must use this time to my advantage."

"Eat your toast, Sherlock. What do you mean by goldfish?"

"Sentiment John, sentiment." Came the dark reply.


	6. Coffee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh goody! There is a serial bombing murderer for Sherlock.  
> And Greg gets confused by Mycroft.   
> What's new though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter to get ya through Monday my darlings. More coming!

The next time Greg and Mycroft met was at the site of a small bombing.   
The first explosion had gone off at two am and as Greg was leaving the office around three the call came in about a body being found. His division, which meant Sherlock would work the case, assuming it rated high enough. 

Two more bombings, each two weeks apart and each accompanied by a body ensured that Sherlock took the case. As John put it, a serial bombing murderer was more than enough to get him out of the house. However, it wasn't enough to keep Sherlock entertained, which is how Greg found himself arguing about the legal ramifications of allowing Sherlock to take the body home with him. 

"I've worked with you for years and haven't let you take a body home Sherlock. Why would I do it now?"

"This one is different! Look at the burn markings!"

"Go bother Molly, Sherlock. Do you know how much trouble I could get in?"

"That is completely irrelevant as any trouble you get into Mycroft would certainly erase from the records. Besides, Molly doesn't have any body parts with this type of burn pattern. It's for the case Geoff!"

Greg swore a little under his breath and resisted the urge to stomp his foot. 

"Sherlock I am not having this conversation with you. I am not giving you a body, especially since your brother would have to bail me out of jail. "

"I quite agree with DI Lestrade. While easy, it is quite irritating to have to continuously fix your problems brother."  
A smooth voice interrupted before Sherlock could continue his quest. 

"DI Lestrade, rest assured I would let no harm come to you as a result of my brother and his ignorance of the legal system." Mycroft continued as Sherlock glared daggers. 

"Call me Greg and thanks for making sure I don't get tossed in lock up cause your brother thinks it's normal to peddle bodies like ice cream."

At that Sherlock threw his hands in the air and walked away to bother Anderson, who was foolishly arguing with John. 

"If you don't mind me asking Mycroft, why are you here?" Greg asked looking back toward the younger man. "Showing up at crime scenes isn't your normal MO and this isn't a very pleasant one to linger at." 

"How very observant of you, Gregory. No, I felt it would be good to notify you that my superiors are very...interested in these crimes and you are to be encouraged most highly to continue to excel in your deduction of the perpetrator. "

"It's Greg. The only one who calls me Gregory is my nan. Ya know what Myc? I believe that the whole speech you just gave is bull. Mycroft Holmes doesn't have superiors, does he? I think you want this guy, and you just want to seem all mysterious." Greg gave a grin.   
"I'll keep at the case though. Not for your superiors. Consider it a favor from me to you."  
\-----  
Mycroft stiffened as Greg finished speaking.  
Was it possible? Could the inspector be flirting? The file on Gregory Lestrade was clearly marked bisexual, single, and high security clearance. All three very important characteristics of a potential mate. But what could the detective see in Mycroft that would make him wish to engage in a relationship? Nothing. Mycroft Holmes was a closet romantic, gay, servant to the crown who portrayed an ice man. Money? Yes, but Gregory had never seen his true wealth. Looks? Certainly not, as the mirror indicated with every pass. Granted he had asked Mycroft to use his nickname, but Mycroft had foolishly initiated the practice of identifying each other by first names.   
No. There was no true indication from the inspector that there any interest. 

"---coffee?" Mycroft came back into the present just in time to hear the last word fly out of the inspectors mouth.   
"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked  
Greg looked anxious as he repeated himself.  
"I was just wondering if maybe, you'd like to get some coffee sometime? Ya know chat about the case? It's nicer than you kidnapping me every time I update the case file."

"Ahh. Yes. Quite." Mycroft Holmes was flustered. "Well I am a very busy man," he began to say, but was stopped by the way Greg's face fell, "but I'm sure I can make some time." He finished up lamely, slightly blushing.  
Sentiment certainly was not his friend. It distracted him. Gregory probably thought him a fool, bumbling his words. Leave now before your weakness becomes apparent.

"I will contact you with details when it becomes necessary that we meet. Good day Gregory."

And Mycroft walked away, leaving a highly confused Gregory Lestrade in his wake.


	7. A Lonely Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a obsession with Greg's couch and Greg yells at Sherlock. Not because of the couch thing, but because Sherlock is a meddling git.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings!   
> I've missed you!  
> My computer has given up its shaky tendril hold on life so this and previous chapters have been written on mobile. As always mistakes are my own and I own nothing.  
> Comments and kudos are my lifeline.

Greg flopped down on his couch, beer, pizza, and case files in hand. The bombing case was turning very, very odd. The burn markings Sherlock was so interested in had turned out to be electrical in nature, not from the explosions.   
It was nearly four in the morning and Greg had elected not to go in to the office until twelve, which meant if he slept he could get about seven hours of sleep. But he couldn't.   
The thing no one ever talks about is how lonely you are after a divorce. You can be as unhappy as anything, but once they leave, you're lonely. So you sit in your apartment or in your office, eat bad takeaway, and pity yourself. If you're lucky you grab a good shag every now and again.  
Greg wasn't lucky and so he flipped the case files away and laid back on the couch. Pizza growing cold on the coffee table, Greg sipped his beer and thought about the only person who was occupying his mind.   
Mycroft Holmes.  
Sad really when you think about it.  
Greg had tried to ask Mycroft out for coffee and had failed tremendously. The man had been looked at him like he was mental, so Greg had backtracked and made it about the case.   
Always about the case with Mycroft. Always about being in charge.   
Greg wondered if the man had any idea how attractive he was.   
He was beginning to despair ever getting close enough to find out.  
When had his life become a romance novel?  
Guilty pleasures, that's what they were. The ex-wife had left them lying around, and whenever Greg couldn't sleep after a nasty case, or a fight with Dimmock, he'd grab one.   
Even now he was still reading them, not that he'd ever admit it. Admitting that he, a seasoned homicide detective, read romance novels to calm down was inviting trouble. He'd never hear the end of it if Sherlock ever found out.   
No, romance novels were fun to read, but certainly not fun to live.   
\--------

Greg was just dozing off around six am, having caught up with reading the case notes from Molly when Sherlock burst through his door.

"Oi!" Greg said sitting up on the couch. "What the hell Sherlock?" 

Sherlock ran through the hall to his bathroom, just as a very frazzled John Watson stumbled into the flat.  
"Jesus Greg, I'm sorry. I've got no idea what's going on. He just popped up from the kitchen table and came straight here. Didn't say a word, just ran. I followed because I was a bit concerned." 

"I'm really not meant to get any sleep am I? Fuck it. I'm calling off today." Greg muttered, leaning back on his sofa. 

"John!" Came a distant voice. "John! Make sure there aren't any loose wires under the couch!

Greg was up off the couch and on the other side of the room in seconds.   
"John. Has he finally cracked? What is wrong with my couch?"

"Don't know, don't care, it's something to do with the type of couch you have, just know I'm gonna be late for the clinic. Can you handle him? If you can I'll leave but if you'd rather I stay." 

"Nah it's fine John. Take off. Tell Sarah I said hello."

"Thanks Greg. Ta!" John left, shutting the door just as Sherlock came back in, carrying his magnifying glass. He walked over to the couch and fell on his knees to look under. 

"Sherlock." Greg said in a questioning tone, "Why have you broken into my apartment at six am and what is wrong with my couch?"

Sherlock leaned back on his heels.  
"You have the same kind of couch as all of the victims. The autopsy showed they were tied with wire. The wire is found at the bottom of this type of couch. I wanted to test the wire and John said I couldn't buy a whole couch or break into the furniture store."  
.   
"This couldn't have waited until a reasonable hour?"

"No" Sherlock responded, "I needed John to leave so I could speak with you alone. This was an opportune time as he would have to leave for the clinic. While I am not appreciative of his driving need to be out of my presence, I did feel that this conversation is one better had in the privacy of your flat. Which is why I've dismantled this."   
Sherlock stood, swelling up to his full height. The detective reached into his coat pocket pulling out a bundle of wires.   
"Listening device. My brother is quite taken with you Lestrade. He does tend to go overboard with the surveillance of the people I interact with. But not you. Only a listening device in your flat. No video. No phone tapping. Sentiment is a dreadful disease, debilitating for one in Mycroft's position and he has been taken in fully. So what will you do to inform my brother you are in no way interested? Mycroft does not--"

Greg decided to break in before Sherlock could further deride his brother.

"Sherlock? Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I am interested in your brother? That maybe I find him attractive, mentally and physically? And that maybe you are not as observant of human nature as you think you are? Because I actually do like him, despite not knowing him very well. I believe he is a good man, whether you agree with me or not."

The detective was smirking. Greg was sure of it.  
"Very well Geoff. I'll leave. Mark my words though. It is not easy to be in a relationship with Mycroft Holmes."

"It's Greg and what is that supposed to mean?" The DI yelled at the retreating figure, waltzing out the door of the flat.   
"Sherlock!" 

\---------  
On the other side of London, in a hidden room, the British Government was sitting in shock.   
Sherlock had indeed disabled one of he listening devices. But he had left the one on the bookshelf. Likely on purpose.   
Whatever the reason, Mycroft Holmes was officially in his brothers debt.  
Lestrade...liked him for whatever insane reason.   
And Mycroft had no idea how to react.


	8. Paramedics, Cold Coffee, and a Mysterious Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone wants attention from Sherlock.  
> Someone is about to regret his decision.  
> Mycroft visits and an awkward car trip with Lestrade ensues. But the ending is nice.

Boring. Pointless. Irritating. Unacceptably droll. 

Mycroft leaned back in his office chair. It had been exactly two weeks since he had overheard the conversation between Lestrade and his brother. His attention and interest in his work had been impacted greatly. Mycroft couldn't seem to get the man out of his head. The man with silver hair Mycroft was dying to run his fingers through. The man who had pulled to the surface Mycroft's heart, which up till now had surfaced for no man. Sexual attraction was one thing, but emotional attraction? Almost blasphemous. Disgusting sentiment, made worse by the fact that Mycroft knew he could have a chance with the inspector.   
Work was not distracting. His most recent negotiations had ground to a halt as the Americans were irritating the Swiss and the French were being overzealous. Not to mention the Russians and their current legislative....decisions.

Standing and reaching for his umbrella, Mycroft called Anthea in.

"Ring for the car. I'm going to go visit my brother."  
"Very well, sir" the woman responded without looking up from her mobile. "The Americans are due to respond to your latest proposal in approximately three hours, the French in two. I've set up a meeting for the American and Swiss representatives at O'Halley. Neutral ground. You can take your time visiting. A course of stress relief will be good for you sir." She continued, the hidden smirk apparent in her voice. "The car is here." 

"Thank you Anthea."  
Anthea knew about Gregory of course. She knew everything about him. He'd fire her if she wasn't so good at her job, simply for the amount of snark he received when they were alone. 

The car trip to Baker Street was brief and as Mycroft arrived at the door to 221B, he heard the sounds of violin emanating from within.   
Mozart.  
Sherlock was upset, and Mozart meant that John had upset him.  
Excellent. He could pull his brother out of his sentiment induced strop and relieve himself of the stress that had been building. 

\---------  
Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk with his fifth cup of coffee when the call came in. He was exhausted having been at the office since five am, with only four hours of sleep the night before. He refused to admit that loneliness was the root cause of his long nights. But Greg couldn't help but hope that maybe one day something could happen with Mycroft bloody Holmes. His conversation with Sherlock a few weeks ago hadn't helped stem the flow of Mycroft fueled daydreams either. He and Mycroft going on a date. He and Mycroft kissing under the stars. He and Mycroft with a child. Mycroft pushing him against a wall, running his hands up while his mouth moved down.  
Waking up to see the morning sun on Mycroft's face.   
No. Imagining Mycroft and he together was a sure way to be disappointed. The daydreams did help him feel less lonely though. Greg continued to muse, sipping the now cold coffee. 

 

Donovan came rushing into his office as he finished the cup, breathless and frazzled, trying to get her arm into her coat sleeves.  
"Sir. The apartments across the alley from 221 Baker St. exploded. Mrs. Hudson called in direct to our line. Holmes got hit when the windows of 221B imploded and has a concussion. His brother was visiting him when it happened and he's requesting we take the case.  
His people found a body in the apartments. Holmes says it's the the same guy that's been causing the other ones. "

Greg stood up and rushed out of the office, the adrenaline and worry doing what the coffee couldn't.   
Sherlock was hurt and there was an explosion, but those he could handle. It was a common enough occurrence. But if Mycroft had been hurt...  
It didn't bear thinking.  
The trip to Baker Street was short. Sirens on as his team tore through London. As they pulled up Greg could see a paramedic van outside.  
Greg's heart was pounding as loud and as fast as his feet were on the stairs to the flat. He passed Mrs.Hudson on the way in, herself shouting something about already calling John.   
His team was outside already securing the scene across the alley, but Greg had to check to make sure that Sherlock was okay. He was only checking on Sherlock. Mycroft had probably left already. It was silly to be worried about the all powerful Mycroft Holmes, especially since they weren't even dating.   
Didn't change the fact that he really, really liked this man.   
Greg opened the door to the flat. Sherlock was standing by the fireplace, apparently only suffering from a minor concussion. The DI's gaze zoomed in on the paramedic who was currently tending to...Mycroft. Greg saw how calm Mycroft was, even as the paramedic stitched up his head. A nasty cut was still oozing blood from between the sutures and Mycroft was holding ice to his cheek where a bruise was already forming.   
Peasant blue eyes flickered up to his and the world slowed. Time grinding to a halt was only supposed to happen in storybooks. But it happened. Greg began to step forward from the doorway only to be shoved rudely aside by a very concerned John Watson.   
"Sherlock!" John shouted practically leaping across the flat to get to the detective.  
Breaking eye contact with each other, the men stared at the pair by the fireplace. John Watson had collided with the infamous Sherlock Holmes and had his hand twisted in Sherlock's curls. The blogger was thoroughly snogging the other man. Sherlock seemed in a state of shock, hands splayed out at his sides. The pair broke apart as Mycroft, Greg, and the rather confused paramedic stared. 

"John?" asked Sherlock, stunned. 

"Never, Sherlock. The answer to before is never. Just please stop trying to get yourself killed." John answered back in a shaky voice.

"I thought...." Sherlock replied, response dying off as John walked forward and put his arms around the taller man, nestling his head against Sherlock's chest. Without missing a best, Sherlock wrapped his arms around the blogger, pulling him in tight.   
"Um.." Greg voiced his confusion just as Mycroft gave a small cough.   
John and Sherlock jumped apart, apparently having forgotten they weren't alone.   
The paramedic had finished seeing to Mycroft and left after trying to give John instructions on how to handle a concussion. John to his credit, laughed and sent the poor girl on her way before Sherlock was able to open his mouth. 

When the four men were finally alone, having sent a frazzled Mrs.Hudson off to have a soother and a rather bored looking Anthea out to deal with policemen, Sherlock pulled a slip of paper from beneath the skull. 

"This was on the door when I got back from the morgue this morning."   
The other men looked on as Sherlock read it out. 

"You're next darling. Think of this as my explosive introduction!"

"What does he want?" John asked simply. "Why you?"

Mycroft chose to answer,   
"Sherlock was chosen because this man wants--"

"A game." Greg finished Mycroft's sentence, looking at the other man.

"Precisely." Mycroft spoke again, returning Greg's gaze. 

"If you two are quite done acting like you're in a romance novel, John would like you to leave so he can thoroughly ensure I am unharmed. That in addition to the fact that I cannot sleep for another six hours minimum, ensures I will have a lovely night. Leave." Sherlock said reaching down to grasp John's hand and place it firmly on his ass.   
John snatched his hand back, turning beet red. Greg turned red for him and Mycroft just blinked. 

"Yes it is past time for me to leave. Gregory might I offer you a lift to the station? It seems your comrades have left for the night already." 

"Uh...sure" Greg managed to stammer out, redness moving up his face. 

The two men bid farewell to the rapidly reddening John and the Sherlock whispering in his ear and left the flat.  
When they reached the car Greg pulled the door open to left Mycroft slide in first.   
With a deep breath Greg clambered in after him. The pair was silent in the dim car. Greg could hear muffled traffic noises and the whir of the fans up front. Mycroft was sitting only a few feet away from him, and his mind was running rampant. If Mycroft had any indication of the scenarios running through Greg's head he gave no hint of it. They arrived at the Yard and Greg went to get out of the car. 

"Listen. Mycroft. Thanks for the lift. I um, I'm really glad you weren't hurt any worse than you were. " Greg said with a half grin on his face.  
"See you around?" 

Mycroft blinked and nodded.  
Opening his mouth the red head spoke for the first time since the flat.  
"Gregory. You at one point asked if I would like to have coffee. When I did not reply, you attempted to make it seem as if you wished to discuss work only. I do know that speaking of the case was not your original intent. Since the coffee incident you have seen me once. Your concern for my brother overrode your interest in pursuing a romantic affair with me. However, I do believe that there may be something worthwhile in pursuing a relationship with you. Understand this though, Gregory, yes I am interested, but engaging yourself with me is not easy. I am a very powerful man, and a very busy one. My brother, as you know, is frankly an law-breaking arse with a adrenaline junky boyfriend. If you can handle all of that plus the fact that I am also not a very nice man who does not always follow society's laws, then I would like very much to 'go out with you'. Perhaps we could skip the coffee though?"

Greg was speechless. His mother would like this man very much, as Mycroft Holmes seemed to be the only person who could get Gregory Francois Lestrade to shut his mouth. Greg nodded dumbly, missing the way Mycroft's body relaxed at his agreement.

"Uhm. Yes. Dinner then? When are you free?" Greg asked, still a bit in shock. 

"I will message you a list of convenient dates and you may choose. Good day Gregory."

With that, the car pulled away,waving Greg standing outside the Yard, a dopey smile plastered on his face.   
Shaking his head like a wet dog, Greg waltzed into the yard, whistling, hands in his pockets.  
Today had been a very good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the boys are getting their acts together!   
> Go Mycroft! We'll see what he thought next chapter.
> 
> Also, I'm planning to do a companion piece to this detailing John & Sherlocks story. I'll make this into a 3 part series hopefully. 
> 
> Comments & Kudos are greatly appreciated! Come find me on tumblr if you like:
> 
> http://hums-happily.tumblr.com
> 
> (Oh and no beta, so lemme know about any mistakes okay?)


	9. Asparagus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go on a date and it goes....really..really...well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ahem*  
> There is porn here. You have been forewarned. Please be gentle. If you wish to skip just know that the date went well, Greg thinks Mycroft is beautiful, and Greg decided Mycroft needs a nickname.   
>  I am not a gay male, so this is all hearsay.   
> I think the boys enjoyed themselves though.  
> I hope you did too.

Mycroft was meeting Gregory in two hours and had no idea what to wear.  
Looking around his closet, disrupted from the normal state of tidiness by the mounds of clothing piled up he decided to call for back up.  
He really didn't think going in his pants and socks was appropriate, even if the place was a bit lower class than his usual fare.  
Picking up the house phone, Mycroft pushed the button to connect him directly with the one person who knew him best.

Anthea picked up before the first ring had even finished.

"The brown trousers sir, and the forest green linen shirt with long sleeves. Oh, just hold the line for a minute sir. " Anthea set the phone down and muffled thuds echoed through the line.  Mycroft nearly smiled. Anthea was quite frighteningly good at her job.  
"Sorry about that sir. Wear the matching brown blazer over it and you'll be fine. Adorable even. No tie."  
Mycroft scowled internally and hung up. Adorable was not his usual goal. Powerful and dangerous, yes. Adorable was not as useful in the job field. But perhaps to interest Gregory Lestrade, adorable would work.  
Mycroft slipped into the outfit and had to admit Anthea's choices were excellent per usual. Leaving the two top shirt buttons undone. he glanced in the mirror.  
The bottoms could have been a bit looser, but Mycroft resolved to eat a salad at dinner.  He slipped his shoes on, picked up his trusty umbrella, and made his way out the door.

\--------  
Greg checked his watch and walked a little faster. He was supposed to meet Mycroft in five minutes and he was going to be late to the restaurant. He had taken too long to dress and then the tube was running late. Still he was quite pleased with how he had turned out.  Beaten up old aviator jacket and sunglasses, dark denim bottoms and a silk shirt the color of lavender. Dress boots completed the look, which hopefully didn't scream "trying to hard."  
Greg rounded the corner coming up to the restaurant. Mycroft was just getting out of his car and was wearing...brown trousers. Tight brown trousers. Greg felt his mouth go dry. Mycroft in a three-piece suit was something to behold, but the outfit he wore now was positively sinful.  
Making a mental note to say a few Hail Mary's before the next time he saw his Gran, Greg walked over to the entrance.  
"Hello Mycroft. You look stunning as always." Greg said with smile, holding the door for the younger man.  
They walked in and were seated immediately in a private back room.  
The men were silent for the first few minutes as the waiter went over specials and a drink list.  
"I'm glad to see your face has healed up." Greg said after they ordered a nice wine to start with and the waiter swept away to bring out the appetizers.  
"Thank you. I was indeed pleased to have it heal before I left the country."  
"Am I allowed to ask where you went?" Greg said, with a mischievous grin.  
"You can ask, but if I told you I'd have to kill you." Mycroft replied, solemnly, though the effect was ruined by the glint of humor in his eye. The men fell silent again  
"Look. Mycroft." Greg began, "I have to ask-"  
"What I'm looking for? Really Gregory, I should have thought it would be obvious. I'm not putting you on. I'm not trying to fool you in anyway. I want this." Mycroft reached out to place his hand over Greg's on the table. "Really."  
\-------  
The rest of the dinner went without interruption or odd declarations of any kind. Greg and Mycroft grew familiar in each other's company.  
Mycroft did not get a salad, and instead showed Greg that yes, asparagus could be sexy if eaten properly. Greg countered with showing Mycroft just how delectable roasted pineapple could be. Greg was astounded at how alive Mycroft came when no one else was around.  
He was funny, and god help him, but when Mycroft laughed it changed his his face from cold unyielding stone to sunstroke beaches. He was perfect.

Perhaps, the strangest thing Greg learned was that Mycroft was a fan of classic rock. All kinds really. He was partial to Bowie, Queen, and  
AC/DC just like Greg.  They chatted for hours, enjoying their food and wine. Eventually though plates were emptied, bellies full, and the owner of the restaurant had come by to wish them well.  
Mycroft and Greg went out to the street where a nondescript black car was idling patiently.

"I have had a lovely time Gregory." Mycroft said smiling.  "It is very rare that I have the chance to laugh so freely and spend the evening in the company of a trusted friend."  
"Might I offer you a lift home?" He continued, indicating towards the car.  
Greg inclined his head to the side, smiling mischievously.  
"I'd love one actually. Although, I was wondering if you were up for a cup of coffee? Just to end the night?"  
Mycroft caught his eye knowingly.  
"I just so happen to have an excellent Brazilian blend in my kitchen at home. Would you care to try a cup?"  
"Love to."  
\------  
The men sat on opposite sides of the car, although their hands did brush slightly. With every fleeting glance at Mycroft, Greg's breath caught a little. Unbelievable, his luck. Greg still couldn't believe this was real life and not some crap story acted out from a romance novel. The commoner never gets the prince, but it seemed like tonight was about to challenge the stereotype.The trip to Mycroft's was shorter than expected. Greg had a strange feeling that the power of Mycroft Holmes, minor government official, extended to control of the traffic lights. When they reached the house Mycroft walked up to the front door and went in. Greg followed, looking around and just had to say the first thing in his mind.  
 "You know Mycroft. This might sound daft but I half expected to have to walk through a security checkpoint."  
"Not daft at all my dear Gregory." Mycroft answered, removing his coat and taking Greg's.  
"In fact I gave them the night off." He continued straight faced.  
"Cheeky." Greg responded,

Jackets hung on the coat stand, the two men looked at each other warily. Again, Greg was the first to break the silence.  "If this is too fast for you Mycroft, we don't have to. I just--" He shut up quickly as Mycroft stepped close and pushed Greg up against the wall, their mouths meeting with far too much clash of teeth to be comfortable.  He unbuttoned the older mans shirt, sliding his hands over the revealed flesh. Mycroft tweaked a nipple, eliciting a groan from the older man. His hands slid lower still unbuckling the mans belt. "Oh my dear Gregory, I do so want to." Mycroft said as he drew back for a breath, before plunging back into Gregory's mouth.  
Greg moaned into Mycroft's mouth and grabbed for the younger mans hips.  Mycroft grinned wickedly and evaded the mans hands as he slid down to pull the coppers belt through its loops .  
"Oh no. Not yet you devil." Greg muttered, dragging Mycroft up and pinning him against the wall.  
"You'll have to get that later. Right now I want to see you." Breathlessly he continued as he slid the shirt over Mycroft's head. "I want to see all of you. You're gorgeous you know that? Brilliant, beautiful, sexy Mycroft Holmes. I've wanted you for a very very long time Mr. Holmes."  
Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat at the mans words. No one had called him beautiful since before Sherlock was born. No one had taken the time to look past his pretty brother, to see he existed. No one ever showed him the courtesy of accepting that he was real, he was human, and he was so, so, needy.  
Mycroft fell to his knees, shaking, pressing soft kisses to every patch of bare skin he could reach.

"Myc!" The older man gasped out from under Mycroft's onslaught.  
"Take me to bed."

And in that moment Mycroft thought that Gregory Lestrade was the most brilliant man to ever live.

\--------  
The men went toward the bedroom leaving the remaining clothes in their wake. At one point the pair toed off their shoes and socks, whilst Greg was pressing Mycroft against the wall and nipping at his neck.

At length they reached the bedroom. Mycroft tumbled into the bed, his pale skin practically glowing against the deep purple cover. Greg followed, kneeling above him, cock painfully hard.  
"Mycroft Holmes, I believe we are about to have the night of our life."  
Greg's eyes widened as the as the younger man reached up and grabbed his hips, pulling him fully on top.   
"Oh dear have I startled you Gregory? Such a shame you would think me anything but fully prepared.” Mycroft continued, wriggling under him. “I’ll have to save you from your state of shock.”   
Mycroft pulled Greg down for another kiss, threading his fingers through the silver hair. Greg groaned heavily, bucking his hips forward.   
“If you don’t stop talking like that, I won’t be able to hold out much longer.” Greg gasped. “Christ, I haven’t been this hard since Uni”

“Anything you’d like me too say in particular Gregory? Like how much I want to wrap my mouth around you and suck until you’re bone dry?” Mycroft purred, “Or perhaps you prefer when I tell you what to do hmm? Should I tell you to reach down and grab my cock, and pump it until I come all over these pretty purple sheets.” 

“No.” Greg muttered, glancing at the younger mans pretty mouth. “In fact, I think you talk too much Myc.”

Greg slid down and took the very tip of Mycroft in his mouth, causing the man to buck and whine, fisting the bed sheets in his hands. 

“All mine” Greg mumbled around the head of Mycroft’s cock, before swirling his tongue around the the slit. 

Mycroft cried out, voice shrill, as Greg took him down, dragging teeth lightly over the length of him. Greg wrapped a hand around the base of his own cock and pumped as Mycroft thrust up into his mouth. He knew Mycroft was coming apart because of what he was doing and the heady feeling shot straight to his cock. 

“Come for me, beautiful” Greg moaned around his mouthful. Mycroft thrust once more and began to writhe, eyes fluttering. Two more pumps from Greg and the man was in the throes of an orgasm so powerful he was struck silent. Greg’s mouth with filled with Mycroft’s salty slick and he swallowed it down, still pumping his own cock. 

Kneeling over his lover again, Greg looked as Myc’s eyes opened beneath him. They were dark, lust riddled and the sight was enough to push Greg over the edge. Greg felt his balls draw up close and release just as Mycroft reached up and grabbed him for a blazing kiss. Greg spilled himself with a yell and collapsed, falling into Mycroft’s arms. 

He turned his head up capturing his lovers mouth for another kiss, softer this time. They lay there for a moment before Mycroft slid off the bed and went to wet a flannel in the bathroom. He came back and cleaned Greg off in soft strokes, before giving himself a quick wipedown. Throwing the flannel across the room Mycroft lay back down curling into Greg’s embrace. 

“That was amazing.” Greg mumbled sleepily into Mycroft’s hair. “Myc, you are so beautiful. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Myc?” 

“My Myc.” Mycroft could feel Greg smile as he spoke. 

“Will you stay tonight?” Mycroft didn’t want to sound needy but the idea of having Greg’s arms wrapped around him was very appealing. 

“I’ll stay with you.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to smile. He rolled over to face Greg for another kiss. 

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are my air and energy.   
> Come visit me on tumblr too!
> 
> http://hums-happily.tumblr.com


	10. Hey Jude....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg was angry, seething at being tossed aside. It was the type of anger that left a sour taste in your mouth, that left you cringing afterwards at what you had said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry.  
> *cringes*
> 
> Myc....don't do it...

The next morning came quickly for Mycroft. Awake before his alarm went off, Mycroft slipped out of Gregory’s arms. He padded on silent feet to the en suite and turned the shower on. While the water warmed, he brushed his teeth reflecting on the event’s of last night.

There was no denying that he and Gregory were physically compatible, despite the limited experience they had so far. But the emotional compatibility was concerning. Mycroft hadn’t asked anyone to stay the night in years. Mycroft who hadn’t wanted anyone in years, hadn’t entertained the notion that anyone could want him either. The fact that Gregory not only wanted him in his bed, but said he found him beautiful was disconcerting. Gregory had called him Myc, had given him something so plebeian as a nickname. Mycroft knew he wanted a relationship with Detective Inspector Lestrade, but didn’t know just how far he was willing to take it.  
Could it be so simple, he thought stepping into the shower. To just let go, to let sentiment rule? What am I losing by choosing him? Nothing is free, everything has consequences, comes with a price. Look at grandfather. When grandmama died, he buried himself with her, never was the same. Mother was never the same either. Locked herself away to mourn, faked happiness whenever she allowed herself time away from the work. Mycroft could see the sadness in her eyes and couldn’t understand why love had to hurt. Mycroft leaned against the wall, letting the water thunder over his head. He wouldn’t let himself pay the price in the end. He had always chosen the easy way out. 

No. Far better not to feel. Far better to never let anyone in, to never be hurt. This had to end.  
If only it didn’t feel so good to be held in Gregory’s arms. 

 

——————————————————

Greg stretched out, arms coming up empty where they had been full of Mycroft the night before. Blinking himself awake, Greg yawned, and tumbled out of the bed. Teeth definitely needed a clean. Immediately. Hearing the shower running, Greg made his way in to wish Mycroft a good morning. 

Through the glass of the doors, Greg could see Mycroft’s fuzzy form leaning against the wall. 

“Morning Mycroft!” Greg called out cheerily, rooting in the drawers for a new toothbrush.  
Was that rude? Possibly. Greg didn’t really care. “Do you have a toothbrush stashed somewhere I can use?”  
When no answer was forthcoming, Greg knocked on the glass wall of the shower. The figure inside startled and stood straight.  
“Myc? You alright?”  
“I..I am fine Gregory. There are some spare toothbrushes in the bathroom cabinet. Down the hall and to the right. Second door. If you wish to shower, there are also fresh towels. ”  
“Thanks Myc.” Greg left the bathroom to collect his clothes from their scattered locations and find the illustrious toothbrush. 

 

—————————————  
Mycroft waited until he heard the pipes in the wall rattle with the water for the other shower, before getting out. He toweled off quickly and dressed for the office. He would not stay home once Gregory left. He would go to the office and lose himself in work, files and folders full of raw facts, government secrets. The work required only logic, no feeling.  
Going down to the kitchen, Mycroft brewed coffee and sat at the table alone facing the door.  
Gregory would come down. He would sit at the table, Mycroft would tell him that he had changed his mind, walk him to the door and they would go their separate ways. Mycroft would offer him a lift back to his flat and shake his hand as he climbed in the car, alone. Logical, simple, easy. But it wouldn’t be easy. His walls were already down. Remorse was coiled in his belly, cold and unforgiving. His head was pounding in time with his heart, blood rushing through his veins, each pulse telling him that he was wrong. Wrong to be alone, to shield his heart, to hide away from the world. Control yourself Mycroft, control your heart.

 

“Mycroft? You alright?”  
Greg appeared at the doorway, wet hair tousled, dressed in his clothes from last night. 

“Gregory, please sit.” Mycroft responded, as he stood and poured another cup of coffee.  
Setting the mug down in front of the now sitting Inspector, Mycroft settled back into his chair. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been less then forward with you, Inspector. While I realize that I said I was indeed prepared for a relationship, I-“ Mycroft broke off as he felt his throat closing up. Conceal, Mycroft, conceal. “I.. am afraid that some evidence has come to light that suggests we would be better off as nothing more than business associates.” 

Greg couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Is this some kind of sick joke Mycroft? What the hell kind of evidence are you talking about?” He asked, voice cold as he stood up and crossed his arms. 

“Gregory, I-“

“No, Mycroft. Don’t Gregory me. You wanted this just as much as I did. So, what changed between last night and this morning hmm? Did you realize that I wasn’t good enough for you, that I’m not posh enough for the great Mycroft Holmes?” Greg was angry, seething at being tossed aside. It was the type of anger that left a sour taste in your mouth, that left you cringing afterwards at what you had said. 

“Nothing has changed in regards to your status. I am not bigoted enough to allows class differences to rule my life. I’ve just…I’ve just realized that perhaps I was not correct in suggesting that we attempt a relationship.” Mycroft tried again. 

“So you lied. At the restaurant you lied and got me into bed no worries right? Used me for a quick shag, realized you had to get out of it so now I get the morning after chat. The I’m sorry but I guess I’ve been an arse and I rather you not twig it, so I’m going to lie about ‘evidence’ and send you on your merry way. Greg waved his hands around, voice growing louder.  
“We could’ve had something Mycroft, I’m not going to lie, I wanted something. But I guess I was wrong, so I’m gonna leave and I’m going to pretend this never happened. Farewell Myc. Enjoy your loneliness.” The last sentence was shot through with derision and frustration, the nickname rolling off Greg’s tongue like tar. 

Greg left the kitchen, and Mycroft could hear him storming down the hallway, could hear the slip of fabric as he snatched his coat off the rack. Could hear the slam of the front door as he left, the windows rattling in time to the beat of his heart in his chest.  
It is wrong, it was bad to feel this way. He was right not to let this, this dalliance go any further. He shouldn’t have started it in the first place. But it had felt so good when Gregory smiled at him, wrapped his arms around him late in the night. So good to hear his laugh, to wake up with the sun hitting his head where it lay on the pillow. So good for one night not to be alone, to be sleeping in a cold bed with only distant sounds of traffic to keep company. Mycroft could have had a lifetime of this, if only he had had the courage to try. But Mycroft had never been brave. 

Mycroft Holmes set his head down in his arms on the kitchen table, and for the first time in thirty years, wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let me tell you a little secret. I don't claim to be a writer and quite often my work is slap dash. This is just me vomiting up words onto a page in a semblance of a story because I need a creative outlet. I don't update often, I'm not as careful as I ought to be when editing. I do work in a genetics lab and have actual real world stuff I need to get done and for that I am sorry. But let me just say that I really cannot believe the response I've gotten from you all. For everyone who has stuck with me I appreciate and love you all so so much. Don't be afraid to talk to me, I love it! My God 2000+ hits already! *Squeals* 
> 
> Second, don't worry. The boys will work it out. Look for upcoming chapters, hopefully within a two weeks. I do have a massive presentation coming up for work though so I'm looking at a few caffeine infused nights. I know this one was short, but for good reason!
> 
> Third, as always I have no beta nor do I have a "brit picker". Shame on me. *Slaps wrist*


	11. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is a funny thing.   
> People do so many things when they begin to fear the passing of the clock.   
> And time is often used to spread fear.   
> What happens when a countdown begins?

~1 Month After The Break Up~

 

2:00:00  
“Sir?” When Mycroft looked up, Anthea stood at the doorway to his office. “It’s nearly three in the morning. I’m leaving now to catch a flight towards Hong Kong. I’ve ordered the car to come round seven to bring you to the palace.”

“Yes, thank you Anthea.” Mycroft nodded a dismissal and went back to his papers.   
“I’ve thought about changing it.” Anthea said suddenly, eyes focused on her boss. “Anthea is a nice name, well suited for my purpose.”   
“But sir,” She continued, coming closer, “A change in routine is often beneficial to mental well being. In fact, it has been proven that change can have remarkable effects. I’ve had the name Anthea for far too long I think. And you?” She paused here, waiting for Mycroft to give in and look up at her. When he did she gave a sad smile. “You’ve been alone far too long.”   
She slid a cell phone onto the desk, perfectly polished nails scraping lightly on the polished wood.   
Mycroft said nothing, only looked at her and nodded another dismissal curtly.  Anthea was going soft. She had started seeing someone, and had done her best to keep it from him. He could have found out who, but he didn’t care. He felt drained. He felt empty, like he had before he started seeing Greg, only magnified. Was this what sentiment wrought? Would he feel like this until the end of his days or would the feeling eventually fade? Ending up old and alone. Just like grandfather. 

 

 

1:30:00

“It doesn’t make sense John!”   
Sherlock was pacing, frenzied, as John stood at the entryway to the living room, slowly toweling a mug dry. He’d given up on sleep two hours ago, and had started dishes instead.   
“There should have been another murder by now. Why hasn’t anyone died John? He had gotten so precise!”   
“Maybe the murderer has decided that killing is wrong, given up, and fled to Australia to become a preacher.” John replied drily. “Look Sherlock, it’s three in the morning. Can’t you at least stop pacing? Some of us have work to get to in the morning.”  
Sherlock stopped. “You don’t have work. You’re not scheduled for Friday mornings.”  
“I told Sarah I’d go in and work the overtime because Marie has to take her mother to the doctor for cataract surgery. I’m starting my shift at noon.”   
Sherlock scoffed and threw himself onto the couch. “I need to think John. Go away.”  
“Excellent idea. I’m going to bed.” responded John, walking into the kitchen and putting the mug up.” He walked back out and threw the tea towel onto Sherlock’s head. “Your bed. Come in whenever you get finished thinking. Don’t wake me up unless London catches fire.”  
Sherlock scowled as he yanked the towel off his head and settled into his mind palace. 

 

1:00:00

Greg sighed as he got another cup of coffee from the staff room. Three-thirty in the morning and he had just finished up the paperwork from the Smith case. There was still a stack of evidence files waiting for him back on his desk for the serial bomber murderer case that had even Sherlock stumped. With only one body dropping after the bombing behind Baker Street, it was understandable how tetchy Sherlock was. Irritating to the point of wanting to strangle him, but understandable. John’s words. The relationship between the pair hadn’t changed very much after they had finally made it official. John still wanted to murder Sherlock and Sherlock was just sweet enough when needed to avoid ending up on Molly’s table. Love was a messy thing. Greg hadn’t missed the look of pity in John’s eyes when he asked about Mycroft, either. He knew John had been rooting for them from the beginning, if only to get Greg into a better mental state. 

It was either back to the papers or back to the lonely apartment. Hardly a choice, despite how tired he was. He could go and work in his office for a few, then head home and crash. He hadn’t planned on coming in tomorrow anyway, since the Smith case was finished with.   
“Sir?” Donovan poked her head in as she shrugged on her coat.   
“Yeah Donovan?” Greg said looking up from where he was refilling his mug. Again.  
“I’m heading off. Taking a friend to the airport. Don’t stay here too long.”  
Greg raised an eyebrow as Sally waited at the door for his dismissal. She was practically vibrating with energy. She seemed very excited to be going on a trip to the airport this early. She’d been acting strange lately. She’d been coming in humming happily every morning. She’d broken it off with Anderson weeks ago, but was treating him nicely. She’d even refrained from calling Sherlock a freak, but whether that had to do with John’s pointed glares or her sudden attitude change Greg didn’t know. All signs pointed to a new relationship, and Greg was not a good enough person to pass up the chance at a tease. “Right, have fun. Hope he has a safe flight then. Make it a memorable goodbye.” Greg said waving her off “Oh, I will sir.” Sally winked at him as she left.   
“Oh and Greg?” She said popping her head back into the room. “I’ll make sure she knows you encouraged me. She quite likes you.”  
At this point, Greg raised both his eyebrows high enough that they flew to merge with his hairline. She. Learning new things every day about his team. Least Sally had someone whose schedule seemed to be just as messy.   
Greg yawned, as he walked back to his office. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. Sitting down in his chair he yelped as something hard collided with his right butt cheek. Swearing and digging the offending item out from under him, he blinked, surprised at what he found.   
His cell phone with a bright yellow sticky note attached. In all capital letters, ’CALL HIM’ was written by Sally Donovan’s hand.  
“Interfering busybody.” Greg muttered. The universe had apparently decided to punish him for teasing Sally. 

 

 

 

0:45:00 

Lestrade looked at the phone he had tossed onto the corner of his desk.  
He shouldn’t call.  
Mycroft wouldn’t want to hear from him, he had made it clear when they broke things off.  
And it was late. Maybe Myc was asleep. Mycroft, Greg forced himself to think. Not Myc. Not anymore.   
But what if…..  
Shaking his head, he turned back to his paperwork.

 

0:30:00

Mycroft looked at the phone still sitting on the corner of his desk.   
He wouldn’t call.  
Gregory wouldn’t want to hear from him. DI Lestrade he forced himself to think. Not Gregory, not anymore.  
He also shouldn’t call this late at night. Most people were asleep at this hour.  
But what if…  
Shaking his head, he turned back to his paperwork.

 

0:15:00

Greg looked over at the phone sitting next to his now empty coffee. Before he could talk himself out of it, he sent a text. 

 

0:10:00

Mycroft got up and stretched. He padded over to the fridge and fetched a bottle of water. As he sipped, he contemplated the phone sitting on his desk. Perhaps, he should call and apologize. Try to explain what had happened in a logical manner. It wouldn’t do to lose such a valuable contact at the yard. Especially with Lestrade due for a promotion. No. It would be better to allow Lestrade to contact him first. As he turned away he heard a small buzz. The screen of his phone lit up and Mycroft forced himself to walk slowly over to it. A new SMS notification was blinking on the screen.

Mycroft’s fingers flew as he entered the eight digit unlock code. The message simply read; ‘We should talk.’ Gregory.   
He dialed the number quickly, and waited as the phone rang. 

The line picked up and he heard the gruff, “Lestrade here”  
Mycroft cleared his throat, and responded with a soft, “Hello DI Lestrade.”   
“Mycroft? I don’t… I wasn’t expecting you to call.” Greg sounded frazzled, and Mycroft wondered if he had made a mistake. “Just….Um…Hi.”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say now that he had Greg on the line.  
“I wanted to speak with you, but I didn’t think you would want to speak to me. I don’t have much experience with…this sort of thing..” He said finally.  
“Look Mycroft, we both said things that were regrettable. At least I know I did. And, this is tough for me to say, but I was wrong to say the things I did. I just, I wasn’t looking for another mistake Myc.” Greg went silent on the end of the phone, waiting for a response. “I’m sorry.” Mycroft blurted out into the sudden silence. 

“What?” Greg straightened up at the unexpected words.   
“I am sorry.” Mycroft repeated, this time slowly and putting a distinct edge on each word.  
“I am sorry that I dragged you into this. I am sorry that I ruined a friendship, the only relationship that I had that could be considered a true friendship over…this. I shouldn’t have given into.. I..” Mycroft paused, biting his lip. “I really did want something with you. I should have known I would mess it up.”  
“Mycroft.”  
“Please Gregory, let me finish. It is not easy for me to connect with other people and I think it is something we should discuss. I panicked, because I felt myself falling for you and love only tears your heart out in the end and isn’t better not to feel at all? You called me Myc. You gave me a nickname, said I was beautiful. No one has ever seen me as a human being before, not something to be used and discarded and I didn’t know how to react! I’m just so sorry that I never even gave you a chance.”   
“Mycroft.”  
“No Gregory please. I mean every word I say. Every word.”  
In perfect harmony, eight words were spoken from both ends of the wire.  
“I think I might be falling for you.”

 

0:05:00

Sherlock crawled into bed next to John, doing his best not to wake the sleeping doctor.   
“Sher?” Came a voice muffled by pillows.   
“Yes, John. Who else would it be?”   
“Mmm. Hudson maybe.”  
Sherlock smiled at the sleepy voice of his partner.   
“Did you figure it out?”   
No, I’ve texted Lestrade and told him I’ll be in tomorrow to look at the evidence.”  
John turned over to blink up at Sherlock drowsily  
“I worry Sher. He might come after you again.” he said, yawning.   
“He never came after me John. In fact, he only came after me when I was within the highest security zone this side of the Atlantic.”  
“What?” John said beginning to wake up a bit more.   
“I mean he only tried to harm me when I was with Mycroft. He was foolish enough to try and get to me when…” Sherlock trailed off as a thought occurred at alarming speed.  
“JOHN!” Sherlock gasped, jumping out of the bed. “Phone John, phone!”   
“Sherlock whats happened, John asked sitting up quickly at the alarm in the detectives voice.   
“It’s Mycroft. That’s it! He’s after Mycroft.” Sherlock said as he dashed out to grab his phone.   
John followed, grabbing his own phone off the beside table.   
As he entered the living room John could see Sherlock with the phone up to his ear.  
“Fucking fucking fucking hell Mycroft pick up! Shit!”  
Sherlocks eyes met Johns and they were full of fear. If he hadn’t been convinced by the swearing, that look would have sent John into a panic.

“John! Call Lestrade! NOW JOHN!”   
Cursing, John dialed the number from memory as Sherlock waited for his brother to answer.   
“Pick up dammit!”

 

0:01:45

The pair fell into a hushed silence at their unified declaration, broken only by the beep of an incoming call on both lines.  
“I should get that.” They said again in unison.  
“Sherlock’s calling.”  
“John’s calling.”  
“Probably a break in the case.”  
“Undoubtedly, but I must confess I don’t wish to hang up Gregory.”  
“I don’t want to stop talking either. Can I come to you?”  
“Please do.” Mycroft responded with a sigh as the incoming call beeped again. “I really have to get this. My brother can be so impatient.”  
“It’s fine. John’s on the other end of mine as well, so something must be happening. Are you at your office?”  
“Yes.”  
“Right. I’ll be there in twenty. Goodbye Myc.”  
“Goodbye Gregory.”  
“And Myc?”  
“Yes?”  
“Falling isn’t that bad as long as someone is there to catch you.”

0:01:00

Greg hung up with Mycroft and grabbed his jacket. On the way to the parking structure he punched the numbers in and waited for John to pick up.  
“John? Why the hell are you calling me at five in the morning?”  
John’s panicked voice came over the line. “The bomber has been after Mycroft the whole time and he’s not answering his phone! We have to get him. Sherlock says security’s been breached. The bomber is there with him!”  
The phone clattered to the ground as Greg took off at a run towards his car. 

 

0:00:45

A knock on the door interrupted Mycroft as he was dialing Sherlock’s number. 

“Davis? You’re early. Anthea said the car would be round at seven……” Mycroft trailed off as he turned around and saw the man standing before him.

“Very good Mr.Holmes.” Davis said grinning. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out now yes?” 

His thumb hovered over the button that led to his wired vest.   
“Unfortunately for you, I found myself getting bored killing normal people. I decided it would only be fun to come after a Holmes.”

“Not Sherlock of course, that’s been done before.” The man said, walking towards Mycroft. “No I wanted a big fish. Who better than a minor government official?”

“I can hardly blame you.” Mycroft said, inching his hand toward the silent alarm and the gun holstered under his desk. “But why the other murders? Why not just make a stand with me?”

“The other murders were just for fun. A chance to play with a little electricity before I tested the proper amount of explosives I needed to take down a building. Sherlock noticed of course, how precise I was getting. I was there when he tried to tell you. You and your brother really need to work on your communication skills.” 

“No,” Davis continued, “I just wanted to play a little first. Make a name for myself. I wouldn’t go for that alarm by the way, because if you happen to press it, I’l press my special button and blow us all to kingdom come.” He grinned manically.

“I’ll be fair, Mr. Holmes. You’re a good employer. So here’s the plan. I walk out of here and you might survive. You’ll have exactly ten seconds to dive for cover. I’d use them well. You don’t let me leave and we both die. Game over. Make your choice.” 

“Walk then. You won’t get far.” Mycroft said simply. “You aren’t the first to try and kill me. Even if you succeed, my brother will find you and kill you. If Anthea doesn’t get you first.”

“Well Mr. Holmes, I hope you enjoy the explosive conclusion.” Davis walked backwards out of the office, bowing in his insolence. “And I doubt they’ll find me. You hired me for more than brawn after all.” 

The second Davis was out of view, Mycroft hit the silent alarm and ducked under his desk. He waited, still and silent for the blast to come, arms curled around himself, head shielded.   
He smiled a sad smile as the thought of Gregory on his way over flashed in his mind.   
As he waited for the heat wave to overtake him, he whispered a last message that only he would hear.   
“I’m sorry, Gregory. Take care of Sherlock for me. ” 

 

0:00:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.  
> This seems to be a running theme.  
> No character death I promise.   
> You'll note that there is now a set number of chapters. I'm excited. Are you excited?  
> Please comment.   
> I live and breath comments.


	12. Three Kinds of People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where is Mycroft?

Three types of people are created when death comes for a visit. 

Often people will panic, flailing about looking for someone to save them. They will run around waiting for the hammer to fall, doing nothing to stave off impending doom. These people are the most common, and those who most commonly die. 

 

The second type are those who fight against death, and at the same time beg for mercy. They have conversations with death, God, or whatever ultimate energy source they believe rules the universe while fighting to keep breathing. This type is known as the soldier and is made mostly of soldiers. John Watson has himself said that the words that crossed his lips were, “Please God, let me live” as he lay bleeding out on scorching desert sand. Gregory Lestrade has had to do this only once, after being stabbed by a troubled youth during a robbery. He managed to drag the corner of an ice chest onto his leg, putting pressure on the wound so he didn’t bleed out, and call for backup before he blacked out, all with the word “Please” bubbling on his lips. 

 

The third type is the least common, and as you may have guessed is the category populated by the Holmes brothers and a certain Molly Hooper. This is the category of people who when faced with death will laugh, and give themselves up gladly. They greet death as an old friend, shake the hand of whatever form it comes in, and then tuck themselves away to take their chances. Sherlock did this when he accepted the pill from the cabbie. Molly Hooper did this when at the age of thirteen, she nearly drowned after being swept out to sea by a rip tide. They both accepted their fates and waited to see what would happen after doing the best they could to alleviate the situation. Often these are the people graced with dumb luck, and a guardian angel. Molly’s came in the form of a pair of rogue kayakers. Sherlock’s came in an invalidated army doctor with a illegal gun tucked into his waistband. 

 

Mycroft Holmes has nearly died seven times. He has actually been declared dead on the table three times only to come back against all expectation. Occasionally, a curious doctor will ask him if he remembers dying and Mycroft will lie. He will tell the doctor not to be foolish, that dead is dead. He will say the only thing he remembers is waking up in the hospital bed, wrapped in bandages and high on pain medication. with security surrounding his room. 

He does not tell the doctor how he remembers dying, how it is quicker and easier than falling asleep. He does not discuss seeing the bright light that he didn’t believe until the first time he died. He does not tell the doctor how he felt the electric jolts of his heart being started up again. He doesn’t acknowledge the pain of waking up, how it seems like he is shooting up from underwater while his body is weighed down with barbed wire and chained to anvils.  
He didn’t tell anyone about the woman with a beautiful pearl necklace and opal earrings that waited for him in front of the white light. How her eyes lit up and she smiled as she saw him. How she never, ever let him walk into the light, no matter how much his body hurt. For if someone had asked and he had told the truth, then they would want to know who the lady was. But how do you explain that your grandmother, dead now for thirty years, spoke with you every time you died? How he never could bring himself to ask her if she was really there, for fear of her answer? How she never spoke only smiled and shook her head as he went to walk closer?  
No, Mycroft locked the memories away in a small closet of his mind palace. They were taken out and analyzed each time he managed to come back from the brink of death, then hastily locked up again.

He did ask Sherlock if anything special had stuck out after the first- and last - time his brother overdosed. Sherlock scoffed at him, but Mycroft didn’t miss the shock in the young mans eyes. The fear written over by a hunger to categorize the experience of almost dying, dying, dead, alive. But no spark of recognition, of a visit to someone else. 

So when Mycroft hit the alarm and tucked himself away under his desk he was prepared to die. There was no time for heroics, no time for one last goodbye call, no time for sentimental thoughts riddled with what-ifs.  
He did whisper one last sentiment to the universe, asking for one favor from the powers that be, on the off chance that someone anyone was listening. When he heard the dull roar, felt the wave heat flow over his body, he expected nothing less than death. It was his greatest gift, and his greatest weakness, to welcome death as an old friend. So when the plaster from the roof fell and shook the desk he was under, he did not panic. He did not beg when he heard the glass from the framed paintings lining the hall shatter, or the dull thud of the ceiling beams as they fell down around him. 

When the world went black, Mycroft Holmes had already shut his eyes and was waiting calmly.  
———————————————-

 

“Mycroft? You can open your eyes sweetheart.” 

Mycroft opened his eyes, blinking at the warm white light that was surrounding him. He was hunched over in a long hallway, the walls whitewashed stucco. There were large arching windows at intervals along the wall. At the far end was a set of open french doors, flanked by white curtains billowing outward. There was a breeze blowing from somewhere behind him, pushing him forward that smelled like the sea, salty and fresh. 

“See? You’re alright dear.” 

“Grandmama?” Mycroft said turning toward the source of the voice. “You…you can speak?”

“Yes. I just never had a reason to before.” The woman in front of him was his grandmother, but at the same time she wasn’t. She glowed from within, emitting a warm light as she spoke.

“Mycroft what are you doing?”

“I…I am not entirely sure grandmama. I can assume that I’ve died or am very close to doing so, but that is not entirely logical as I am speaking and apparently still alive. I am having trouble categorizing what is happening to me. I’ve never been here before so I assume I am injured more than I have been before.” Mycroft replied, standing.

“That is not what I meant silly boy.” scolded the figure, coming closer. “I meant what are you doing here?” 

“Is this not where I am supposed to be?”  
“In purgatory? Hardly. Walk with me. ” 

“Purgatory?” Mycroft asked, as they began to walk down the hallway. 

“As some call it. This place has many names, many forms. All available to those who need it most. Those who die at a crossroads in their life. This isn’t a social call, Mikey. You are correct. You are dying or very close too it.” Eloise Holmes, or the closest thing to her Mycroft had seen in years, clasped her hands behind her back and turned to face him. 

 

“I had surmised as much grandmama. I have just gotten caught in an rather large explosion. set by a mad man who had wiggled his way onto my staff.“ Mycroft responded, arching an eyebrow. 

“Watch your tone Mycroft Holmes.” The eyes narrowed, and Mycroft thought back to when he was five and had gotten caught deducing his maths instructor. A similar glare had been leveled when his Grandmama had walked in on the sobbing instructor and gleeful Mycroft. 

“Yes ma’am.” Mycroft said apologetically as they continued to walk. As they passed the windows he noticed that each one held a scene from his life.

His fifth birthday party, where he got his first copy of ’20,000 Leagues Under The Sea’. It had been so heavy that he could only read it when he had it sitting across his lap or on a desk. The book had taken him three days to read cover to cover and he had drawn scenes from it for months after. 

The next window held a gleeful Mycroft, jumping up and down, and hugging his parents around the waist as both sets of grandparents looked on fondly. 

“I remember all of this.” Mycroft said quietly, “That’s the day I found out Mother was pregnant with Sherlock. All I wanted then was a friend.”  
“You love your brother dearly. You should tell him more often.” Eloise said from where she stood in front of a window showing teenage Sherlock, high, throwing coffee mugs at Mycroft. As they shattered against the wall behind him, Mycroft stood unwavering in the memory, face blank.

She smiled sadly at him as they walked forward. 

 

Mycroft slowed in front of a pair of window set side by side. The left showed a rather rotund Mycroft getting bullied by a group of older children. Young Mycroft was left clutching his books as he ran away, tears welling up. Names directed like arrows followed him. “Baby.” “Poofter” “Fat ass”

The right window showed an older, slimmer Mycroft dressed in combat gear, staring at himself in a mirror. He reached one hand out to curve around the reflected cheek, startling as sounds of gunshots retorted in the distance. Pulling his gun from the hip holster, he shot the mirror, his face blank and hard. As it shattered, the window Mycroft turned and left the room calmly. 

 

Mycroft followed suit, turning away from the window and walking toward where Eloise had stopped, looking into a large window. 

“It’s not right.” She said quietly. “What your grandfather made you think.”

Mycroft looked into the window. He saw himself standing next to Sherlock, dressed in dark coats and suits. The snow swirled around them and their family as a casket was lowered into the ground. Grandfather stood sobbing silently, as his mother wrapped an arm around him. Mycroft was looking on at the grandfather he had never seen cry and dried his own tears. He stood straight, and promised to harden his heart, to never feel so hard. 

“He shouldn’t have let you believe that love is a disease that will destroy you. Far better to dance in the sun for just one day, then stay in the dark for fear of the light.” 

Eloise reached out and led Mycroft to the window closest to the doors at the end of the hallway. This one was alternating between the image of Greg asleep, sun hitting his head where it lay on Mycroft’s pillow and the image of Mycroft utterly destroyed, tears pouring from his eyes to pool on the kitchen table. 

“Everything dies in time, Mikey. Everything goes away, everyone leaves eventually.” Eloise said walking out of the double doors. Mycroft followed her, walking out onto a white wooden porch.  
To his left was a set of steps leading down the cliffside towards the sea. To his right the porch continued, turning a corner. 

“Look at the water Mikey.” Eloise said as she leaned on the railing looking out over the edge.  
“Near the shore it is quiet and shallow, even though it bursts with life. Then further out you hit the rocks. Some are hidden, some are visible. But to get out further, to find the horizon, you have to sail through them. And when you manage a way out, then you have smooth sailing.” 

She looked at him smiling.

“I remember this place.” Mycroft said coming to lean on the railing beside her. “We came here when I was very young. Grandfather took me sailing. I remember that I wasn’t afraid because he held my hand and told me I was the bravest sailor to ever grace the seas.” 

“This is where your grandfather and I met. He was so tan from being out on the ocean all day. I laughed at him, and then when he smiled back, I was caught. It was as if the thousand sunny days he had sailed under shone out of his eyes. Love at first sight.”

Eloise turned back to the railing. 

“You have to make a choice darling. You can be brave and choose the water. Or you can move on.You have a brilliant mind dear, but it needs some space to breathe. Stop putting up walls and let your soul take flight. There is a very worried young man waiting for you back in London. So you can choose love, Mycroft and go back, or you can choose to try again in another life.” Eloise gestured to where the porch turned a corner. “To move on and see what waits around the corner.” 

“Grandmama, how do I know it will work? How do I know he won’t leave me when I begin to bore him? I’m inexperienced and—“

“Willing. You’re willing to make it work no matter how much you want to pretend you aren’t. If it is meant to work it will. Just let it happen Mycroft. Just let go and accept that you might get hurt. If you never open up to him, then it won’t. Stop worrying so much and choose to live a little!”  
Mycroft buried his face in his hands. A hand came to rest on his back.  
“It’s frightening Mycroft, I know. But if anyone can handle it you can. You are brave Mycroft Holmes. You can do it as long as you're willing to try.” 

The pair stood there for a little while, just listening to the rush of the ocean.  
“It’s time for me to go Mikey.” Eloise said, standing and placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

“May I ask one last question grandmama?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course dear.”

“Is any of this real? Or is it all just in my head?” 

“That’s the secret, Mikey. Everything is in your head. Thoughts, feelings, time. The way we think makes up the human experience. But does that mean that this hasn’t been real?”

When Mycroft looked back she was gone. He stood silent and still for a few minutes gazing out over the railing Two seagulls were swooping in the air, tossing something back and forth. The waves of the ocean were pounding steady against the shore like a heartbeat. 

Bowing his head, Mycroft made a deal with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliff hanger! Sorry, sorry, not sorry at all!  
> *Gatiss style evil laughter*  
> Next chapter will be up really soon, I promise!  
> Anyone who caught the reference at the end gets a cookie. Can you tell me where it is from?


	13. The Thought Of A Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's refusing to...well...you'll see.
> 
> And Sherlock weighs in on the situation. 
> 
> Minor Johnlock fluff to balance out the sadness. You're welcome!

“He’s been asleep for nearly five days John.”  
“We can’t do anything more. Brain injuries can take a long time to heal. Just be glad it wasn’t worse. He could have died, Greg.” 

Greg crossed his arms where he stood in the hospital hallway. John stood in front of him, staring him down in a long white lab coat.  
“You need to go home, get some rest and for God’s sake shower, Greg. If you don’t I swear I’ll have security force you out.” Anthea walked up at that moment, accompanied by Donovan.

“Sir?” Donovan said. “I’m gonna drive you home right? Come on.” Greg didn’t say a word, only looked over at her, glaring daggers. 

He turned back to John and grabbed his arm. “John I can’t leave. Not now. What if he wakes up?” 

“Greg, he shows no signs of waking up. We will call you the second he does.” John looked at him with weary eyes. “Look,” he continued quietly, “I know you feel guilty, but there isn’t anything more you could have done. You even pulled him out of there before he was hurt worse.”

“John. Please.” Greg practically whimpered, crossing his arms to stop himself from falling apart.  
“Greg you can’t stay here like this, you’ll go mad.” 

“Time to go home Lestrade.” Sherlock had walked up to join the group. He glanced over at Anthea and Donovan. “Hickey on your neck and lipstick smeared on you collar. You two are having fun yes?” Turning his attention to John and Lestrade, he continued speaking in a tired voice. 

“I’ll take Lestrade home and make sure he gets rested and fed.”  
“Sherlock?” John said hesitantly.  
“It’s alright John.” The consulting detective looked up and Lestrade could see the bags under his eyes. Apparently Greg wasn’t the only one who wasn’t sleeping. Not that Sherlock wasn’t used to it. But it was strange for Greg to see the man at anything less than full force. 

“Come.” Sherlock grabbed Greg’s arm and dragged him away, stopping only to rest a hand on John’s shoulder. That moment of solidarity, warmth and companionship, was nearly Greg’s undoing. It hurt to someone else happy, supported and healthy. He should have stayed the morning after when Mycroft was panicking. He had seen how frightened the man was but just chalked it up to morning after nerves. He had felt so used, so disposable that he had shouted and said terrible things. Then he had waited a month before contacting him. Maybe if he hadn’t waited so long, maybe Mycroft wouldn’t have been at the office. Maybe he would have noticed the odd behavior of Davis the bloody driver, who still hadn’t been found. 

“Enough Lestrade. Stop thinking, you’re putting me off.” Sherlock said quietly as he opened the door of the waiting black car. Pushing Lestrade in, Sherlock clambered in after him and instructed the driver to go to Baker Street. 

——————————————————————

 

The drive to Baker Street was quick and when they got to 221, Mrs. Hudson was waiting in the entryway.  
“I’ve put a fresh pot of tea up there, and a few sandwiches. There are clean towels in the bathroom.”

Greg did his best to smile at the landlady, but he had a feeling it came out as a grimace. Sherlock continued to push him up the stairs and through the flat to the bathroom. Once outside the door, he took Greg’s coat and pushed him into the small room. Greg began to undress numbly, and Sherlock left after starting the water to warm. It was strange that Sherlock was taking care of him. Greg was so used to it being the other way around. He’d lost count of the times he had thrown Sherlock into a cold shower when he was high, or stood and waited while the younger man had vomited, muscles shaking with the symptoms of withdrawal. Stranger still seeing Sherlock happy and healthy and in a relationship with John. 

Greg stepped into the shower, letting the water wash away the soot that his quick scrubs in the hospital sink had missed. As it thundered over his head Greg glanced down at his palms and their fresh pink skin. The previous layer had been burned away when he had pushed the heated door open to the hallway leading to Mycroft. 

He hardly remembered the drive to Mycroft’s office. His arrival and mad dash inside as the ceiling crumbled and the windows shattered around him was a blur. He had made the run to Mycroft’s office on pure adrenaline, a map of the building seared into his mind by desperation despite only having visited once. 

The water of the shower hurt as it pounded his shoulder, bruised where he had used it to shove the beam off of the remains of Mycroft’s desk. Lucky, he had realized that Myc would be smart enough to duck under the desk. Lucky, he had been able to grab the man before the rest of the ceiling started to go. Lucky, he had made it out to the hall, carrying Mycroft in a fireman hold, and out one of the floor to ceiling windows. Lucky, the paramedics were there with fire and rescue squads and were able to take Mycroft and Greg to the hospital right away. Greg for cuts and bruises, burns and smoke inhalation. Mycroft, because of nothing more than a knot on the back of his head where the desk had collapsed on him. No burns, no cuts or bruises. There was no visible mark on the man only a bump on his head.

It made it worse somehow, since there was nothing the doctors could do. The swelling had gone down but there was nothing definite about head wounds. Greg thought morosely as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off. The towel smelt of chamomile and lavender, it made him sick. Those were healing herbs, meant to bring sleep and good dreams. Greg only wanted to wake up from this nightmare. He put on the fresh clothes that Sherlock must have slipped in and left on the sink. He hadn’t heard the man highlighting how deeply exhausted he was. It was more than just physical exhaustion, it was emotional. A slap dash seduction, then a roaring fight, followed by a month of uncertainty and longing. All culminating in this massive shit storm of events charged with emotional trauma. 

 

Dressed, Greg shuffled out of the bathroom and down to the living room. Sherlock had showered as well, probably ducking downstairs to borrow Mrs. Hudson’s. He was sitting unmoving in his chair, violin and bow in his hands. When Greg sat on the couch sinking into the cushions, Sherlock started. He stared at the DI for a moment before getting up and going into the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later with a cup of tea and a roast beef sandwich. Greg accepted the plate and cup as they were handed to him and set them down on the table next to him. 

“Eat.” Sherlock said, pointing with his bow. Greg complied, picking up the sandwich and biting into it. Despite the food rolling around in his mouth tasting like cardboard, Greg chewed and swallowed. He continued until the sandwich was gone, erasing the hollow feeling in his stomach. He picked up the cup and drained it, ignoring the fact that the tea had gone cold. 

Sherlock just watched while he did what he was told. Now that he had eaten and was sitting on a comfortable chair, Greg realized how tired he was. He pulled his legs up on the sofa and placed his head on the arm. Closing his eyes he promised himself he would only sleep for a bit.  
——————————

Sherlock waited until Greg’s eyes were closed before he started to play. Despite masquerading as a sociopath, Sherlock knew he had feelings. He just knew better than to wear them on his sleeve. It was the life he led that made it dangerous, the people he knew. So Sherlock played his feelings. He allowed himself an outlet through music and deduction and it kept him safe. John understood that. It was good that John understood, because John would stay with him. John said he loved Sherlock, and Sherlock believed him. Sherlock loved John back, maybe ten times as much. 

Sherlock understood many things. He understood how the tie someone was wearing indicated the state of their marriage, and how shoes were a wealth of information. He had thought he understood people. He had thought he had understood what caused emotions, just chemical reactions in the brain. But then John Watson. Always John Watson. 

He had known from the very beginning that if John hadn't stayed he wouldn’t have lived for very much longer. Not because he was addicted to cocaine. He had been bored. When he was bored, he went out and searched for the next hit of adrenaline. There had been times when he didn’t know if he would make it back to the rathole he was living in. But he hadn’t cared. Then Stamford brought John. John who shot the cabbie, John who made tea. John who listened when he played the violin, played out all the things he could never say. Sherlock had John. 

Now Mycroft had Gavin. Greg. Not Gavin. Greg was good for Mycroft. Mycroft wouldn’t admit it but Sherlock knew. Even John had noticed. Sherlock would never admit he loved his brother or that he was worried about Mycroft’s future. Greg hadn’t realized yet that he was in love with Mycroft, hadn’t realized yet that Mycroft was in love with him. 

 

So Sherlock sat and played the story of Greg and Mycroft. He played a song that began sad melancholy, that gained power, rippled with emotion in the middle and then dropped sad and low again. The low period continued before the notes were soaring back up. But when the music dropped with an explosion of low notes, he stopped playing, cutting off right in the middle of a bar. Sherlock set the violin on its stand and walked over to where Greg had stretched out on the couch. He couldn’t compose the rest until his brothers story came to a conclusion. As he pulled the blanket down and swung it over the sleeping detective, the sound of tired footsteps on the stairs made him look up. Skip the third, hit the fifth hard with the right heel. John was home. 

“You’re home.” He said straightening up and walking over as the door opened. “How is he?”  
“Still unresponsive.” John said toeing his shoes off and hanging up his coat. “Anthea is still there. Sarah took over for me and they promised to call if there was any change.” John glanced over at the couch, then back to Sherlock. “Has he said anything?” 

“No.” Sherlock, looked at John, a thousand emotions flowing between the two without either saying a word. “But he hardly has to.” The consulting detective said, taking John’s hands and leaning down for a kiss.  
“No. He doesn’t. We’ve learned the art of nonverbal communication from the Holmes brothers. Do you know any?” John said softly, when they broke apart. “I know one” he continued, “And I love him very much. And I’m going to take him to bed, and curl up with him and try to get some sleep.”  
John led Sherlock out of the living room and down the hallway, flipping the lights off as they went. Greg didn’t stir as the lights went out, dreaming instead of a stormy sea and cliffs reflecting a warm white light. 

——————————————————-

 

Greg struggled up out of the depths of sleep to the sounds of a great bang. Rolling over, hands immediately going out to the bedside table where he left his gun, he crashed to the floor. Groaning he opened his eyes to sight of an John Watson arguing with a rather unimpressed Sherlock Holmes. He rubbed a hand over his head trying to figure out what was happening. 

He listened as John began a loudly whispered tirade with the words, “If I have to tell you one more time not to bring pressurized containers close to bunsen burners, I will withhold se-“  
“Greg’s awake.” Sherlock broke in, a bit too eagerly.  
John stopped and blinked, face turning a bit red.  
“Morning Greg. Coffee?”  
“Um. Yeah. Great.” Greg stumbled into the kitchen, avoiding a pile of what looked to be fuzzy sheep wool on the ground. He grabbed the cup from John and leaned against the counter.  
“Has there been any change?” he mumbled, drinking deeply from the mug. 

“No. Sarah took over and Anthea’s still there.” John said moving back to the stove and stirring the eggs on the burner. Sherlock reached above John’s head to the cupboard and pulled out three plates. He set them carefully on the table, then spun around to put some toast on.  
Greg shook his head at the tall man. He was still a bit sore, head still fuzzy, but he did feel better for sleeping. With the new day Greg couldn’t help but feel optimistic. 

“How long was I asleep for?”  
“Ten hours, 34 minutes.” Sherlock said reaching around John for the pepper as the shorter man ducked under his arm to dish out the eggs. The men worked so well around each other it was frightening.  
“We’ll go back to the hospital soon. The swelling was down last night and there’s not much more we can do until Mycroft decides he wants to wake up.” John said as he grabbed the toast and jam, bringing it to the table.  
“My brother is the most stubborn man alive. He never admits defeat. I am not concerned.”  
Sherlock grabbed a plate and shoved it into Greg’s hands.  
“Eat Lestrade.”  
“But, I…”    
“Eat.”  
———————————

Two hours later Greg was at the hospital, sitting by Mycroft’s side, racking his brains for anything that would get the man to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NickyGP is my new favorite reader for catching the reference at the end of the last chapter.  
> I just want to say thank you to everyone who's commented, kudos-ed, or just clicked on this story. You have no idea how much it means to me.  
> Bless you all.  
> Enjoy the next chapter.  
> Don't forget to follow me on tumblr for musings, minor fluff pieces and a whole load of funny personal stories!  
> http://hums-happily.tumblr.com


	14. Turning Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is visited by someone.   
> And he transmits a very important message to Sherlock.

Mycroft was drowning. He knew he was drowning, the waves were washing over his head pushing him further and further.The waves didn’t crash around him, they murmured. They spoke of ice, and heat. Pain and longing. 

When he had waded into the sea, the ripples of water around his ankles were warm and soft on his skin. The sky above him a warm soft blue, complete with fluffy clouds and swirling sea birds. When he went deeper, the water had grown harsher, testing his muscles and pulling him farther out, deeper under. Mycroft kept swimming, kept pushing against the pull of the ocean, against the harsh hate hidden in the waves. There was a storm above him, and the rain pelted down, hitting his skin like shards of crystal. 

Just as Mycroft began to go under farther, the push of the ocean stopped. The water around him was no longer boiling with force and hate. Quiet and calm, the sky above twinkled with eerie stars. His legs suddenly collided with a sand bar and Mycroft fell onto hands and knees. Panting, he refused to look back at the cliffs he had come from. He couldn’t acknowledge the choice he had made. The one that the logic side of his brain was screaming at him for. . Instead he stood on shaky legs, and glanced along the length of the sand bar. It seemed to extend for miles, curving slightly, a split between the waves he had fought through and the still depths to his left.   
He looked out toward the horizon where the sun had set and saw the moon rising instead. 

“Impossible.” He whispered to himself.   
“No. Just improbable.”   
Mycroft jumped at the tiny voice beside him.   
He looked down to see a curly headed boy, wearing a pirate outfit.   
“Sher..Sherlock? What are you doing here?”   
“Well someone sent me. Not sure who called for backup, but here I am. You’re lucky Mikey. Not everyone gets second chances like this.”   
“You’re a child.”  
“That is how you see me still isn’t it? Besides, who are you to question the depths of your own pysche?” Sherlock scoffed. “You’ve made it this far Mycroft. Don’t stop now.”   
“Is that really why you’re here Lockie? To berate me for taking a break?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
“No.” Sherlock said matching his eyebrow raise. “I’m here to show you the next step. Come on, Mikey.” Sherlock scampered away, over a rise in the sand bar. Mycroft followed, and as he reached the crest he gazed down at a-  
“Sailboat? Sherlock, what are you doing?”   
“Honestly, Mycroft. I’m a pirate. Can’t you tell? Now, come on! I have to take you to your treasure.” Sherlock was in the boat already, unfurling the sail.   
Obliging, Mycroft complied and got in the boat alongside his brother.   
“One thing we have to wait for now…” Sherlock said scanning the sand.   
He let out an earsplitting whistle and grinned at the answering bark. Mycroft turned and saw a copper furred cocker spaniel racing toward them. Paws throwing up sand and water, it leapt into the boat.   
Sherlock knelt down and allowed the dog to lick his face as he laughed.   
“Redbeard?” Mycroft said, questioningly but getting no response from the child or dog.   
“Pull up the anchor Mycroft!”   
Mycroft pulled the anchor as instructed and the sailboat began to move as a warm breeze blew in from shore. It pushed the boat softly out and as they moved Mycroft could see that the sandbar was a great circle. It surrounded an expanse of water that was deep blue and still.   
He leaned over the side of the craft, wind ruffling his hair. The water was too deep to see the bottom. He looked back over his shoulder to see Sherlock laying down, head on Redbeard’s side, humming a jaunty tune. Mycroft had written the nonsense piece for Sherlock during a bout of chicken pox as the curly headed genius was going mad with the confinement. Adult Sherlock would never admit it now, but he had memorized the song once and composed a fiddle piece to accompany it. The brothers began to sing, the words bouncing off the water.

I don’t sail for money,  
I don’t sail for gin.  
I sail for my lady of lavender chin. 

With a pipe in her hand,   
Voice sweet like honey,  
She’s who I’m after when ever I land. 

 

“So you see Mycroft? I haven’t deleted everything that’s important and neither have you. You’ve been away for five days though. You need to go back.” Sherlock said opening his eyes as the song finished. They had sailed far into the circle, and Mycroft was reasonably sure that they were positioned over the exact middle of the pool.   
“Five days?”   
“Yes. Everyone’s a bit worried about you. Brain trauma. Mother’s probably even shown up by now.”  
“Oh. I wonder what the damage will be.” Mycroft said, trailing his fingers through the water. “Do I have to go down?”  
“Well, you won’t have to swim. As soon as you get in the water, it will pull you up. Hurts though.” Sherlock said coming to join him at the edge of the boat. He gazed into the water, before heading back to lay beside Redbeard. 

“I know. I’ve done it before. Just never made it this far before.” Mycroft answered, distractedly watching his fingers ballooning in appearance as he dropped them under the surface.

It was a bit ridiculous but Mycroft had to ask.   
“Will you be alright Sherlock? I don’t want to leave you here.” Mycroft asked turning to his brother.   
“I’ll be fine Mycroft. In here, I have Redbeard. Out there, I have John.” Sherlock said petting the dog. “Time to go, Mikey. I have to get back to the sandbar and dig up my buried treasure.”  
“Lockie?”  
“Yes, Mycroft?”   
“I am very fond of you, little brother. Remember that for me the next time you get arrested.”  
Sherlock glared at him.   
“I’m not the Sherlock you should be telling that to.”  
“I know.” Mycroft gave his brother a small smile before turning back to the water. Closing his eyes, he slipped over the side of the boat.   
————————————————-

Hurts.  Mycroft’s entire body ached. His mouth was dry and his throat was burning.   
As his eyes flickered open he took in the dark room, lit by moonlight and the dimmed glow of machinery. There was a tall shadow standing at the window, gazing out.   
“I do hope you haven’t lost all of your brain function. Five days is a bit much even for a Holmes. It does get so boring being the only smart one in the room. John was beginning to lose hope. Then he, ” The shadow gestured to Mycroft’s side, “had the idea that playing a song John called ‘classic rock’ would help. Ridiculous.”  
Sherlock turned then and Mycroft saw his eyes narrow. “Except it worked. Your brain function spiked. Enough to convince these fools you would pull through.”   
Mycroft turned his head slowly, ignoring how the room swam, to look down at his side.  
Gregory was sleeping there. He had pulled up a chair and had his head lying on Mycroft's thigh. His hands were loosely clasped around Mycroft right hand, avoiding the IV lines.

“You love him.” Sherlock said, coming over to the bed. “Don’t you?”

Mycroft raised his hand and tapped his fingers against Sherlock’s arm. 

L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R C-H-I-N, he slowly signaled in morse code, unable to speak for the tube in his throat.   
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and Mycroft could practically see the younger man rummaging through the forgotten halls of his mind palace. The significance of the words had obviously gotten across to his brother. 

“I’ll go get John.” Sherlock said walking away. “Try to stay awake, but if you can’t I’m sure he’ll be here when you wake again.”  
As Sherlock swept out of the room, coattails trailing behind him, Mycroft lifted his hand and ran it through Greg’s hair lightly. 

'My man of lavender chin', he thought. 'Sentiment never made sense before you.'

Mycroft allowed himself to sink into the natural healing slumber his body craved, the words of that long forgotten tune running through his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww Redbeard. My baby.  
> *BARK BARK*  
> I hope you're all happy with Myc's decision. 
> 
> (Leave me alone about the medical stuff. Like, I'm gonna skip over the whole 'five-day-coma' thing. Basically that's not a good length to be in a coma.)


	15. Remarkable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a certain sort of peace, in knowing that patience is a virtue, especially when dealing with the Holmes brothers.   
> There is also a certain type of person who knows when patience is overrated and will sit and sing David Bowie songs outside a hidden doorway in order to get his attention.

There was no dramatic beside declaration of love when Mycroft woke again.   
There was no romantic scene where the detective fell to his knees and begged his comatose lover to come back from the brink of death. The universe didn’t see fit to slow time down, have the men share a deep longing kiss.   
Instead the next time Mycroft woke, Greg didn’t say anything. He just looked up from their conjoined hands and smiled. Mycroft smiled back, their soft, stupid grins saying everything that they refused to say aloud. They didn’t kiss, they didn’t hug. They just sat fingers twisted together, until Sherlock swept in and started running his mouth, deducing the state of the entire hospital staff’s affairs. His eyes darted between them, but he said nothing.  
Greg took it as approval. Mycroft knew it was. 

 

The universe did see fit to grant Gregory Lestrade with a very cranky Mycroft Holmes.  
Mycroft was upset because the doctors had only just now released him from the hospital after a two week period of poking and prodding. Even the British Government was no match for the combined forces of Dr. John Hamish Watson and Anthea. Gregory was now cursing whatever deity had prodded him into saying he’d watch over Mycroft. Mycroft had argued the point, saying that his security team was more than enough to watch him. Anthea had put her foot down, stiletto heel glinting dangerously, matching the glare in her eye. Mycroft had stopped arguing, and Greg had experienced a sudden surge of appreciation for the woman.   
————————————————-

“I am not an invalid.”  
Greg could very nearly see the steam rolling off of Mycroft as he walked up the steps of his house, Greg following with his bag.   
“I know you aren’t” Greg replied for the tenth time in twenty minutes, “However, I promised I’d look after you.”   
As they entered the house, Mycroft waved off the security man that was holding the door open with a quick, “You’re fired.”  
“Mycroft!” Greg said warningly, as the security man blinked rapidly.  
“He’s sleeping with the cook.” Mycroft scowled.  
“Mycroft…” Greg repeated.  
“Fine. Mr. Briggs you are not fired. However, you will refrain from engaging in any type of coitus while on my property or I will have you shot.”  
Mycroft stomped away, leaving Greg to shrug an apology at the red faced guard and follow after the overgrown toddler in charge of Britain. 

“I hope you are not planning on stopping me from working. I understand Anthea has already weeded through all the personnel in my employ, but I plan to meet with each of them in person.”  
Mycroft continued once Greg caught up with him. 

“As long as you can do it from home.” Greg shrugged, as they walked down the hall. He opened Mycroft’s bedroom door, tossed the bag onto the bed and pulled it shut. He ignored the glare Mycroft shot his way before ducking into what Greg assumed was an office. 

“Right, I’ll just show myself around then, shall I?” he shouted at the closed door. No response.  
Greg prowled around the house for a bit before settling in the sitting room with a plate of food nabbed from the kitchen. He heard Mycroft leave his office once, door shutting quietly, footsteps, and a few electronic beeping noises.   
And that was how it went for the next week. Mycroft would come out of his bat cave, whenever John stopped by to check up on him, then immediately dive back in.  
Bat cave was probably not the best way to describe where Mycroft disappeared to. Greg didn’t see him leave the house at all, but the fact of the matter was that Mycroft was not in his office, or any of the other rooms. Which could only mean one thing. Secret room.   
Greg wasn’t surprised honestly. Mycroft had a definite flair for the dramatic, and it wasn’t like he’d have anything personal in the house where the security could find it. He didn’t blame the man. He wasn’t too keen on having his every move watched by the security, but it was worth it to stay around Mycroft. It might be a far cry nicer if he could actually see the man once in a while. Greg knew they had to talk but years of working with Sherlock and his brother had taught him patience was a must when dealing with the Holmeses. Course after a week, he was getting a bit tired of being ignored. 

And so he did a foolish thing. On the seventh day he began to knock. On the walls, on the doors. Briggs showed up once, with a question in his face. Greg explained and Briggs shrugged, walking away.   
On the eighth day, Greg shouted. Walked up and down the hallway, yelling out Mycroft’s name. Briggs showed up again around noon, offered Greg a lift home to get some more clothes. Greg accepted leaving a note on the kitchen table. When he got back, the note was gone and Mycroft was still nowhere in sight.   
On the ninth day, Greg stopped shouting, knocking, and pacing. He sat at the end of the hallway against a table with a shell resting on it and sang. Bowie and Queen. AC/DC was out of his range, though he’d never admit it. Briggs showed up around seven, the only employee foolish enough to talk to the crazy man their boss was harboring. He shook his head at the man sitting on the floor and walked away, tapping on his ear piece. Greg had no idea what he said but a few minutes later, there was a quiet whooshing noise from the wall to his right. 

“Are you quite done making a scene, Gregory?”   
“I’m not making a scene.” Greg looked over and snorted at the sight. Mycroft was standing in a doorway, set into the wall. Hidden, unless you knew what to look for. Definitely the entrance to the bat cave.   
“We need to talk Mycroft. I’ve seen you maybe three times since we got here. I feel like you are avoiding me.” Greg continued, pushing himself up. Mycroft blinked and turned, walking back into the room he had come from.   
“Are you just going to keep ignoring me?” Greg yelled after him.  
“Come in Gregory.” Mycroft’s replied.  
“I swear Mycroft, with you it’s one step forward, three steps ba— Holy crap.”   
Wall to wall bookshelves, honey brown. Filled with books and books and books. Mycroft stood in the middle of the room, a dip in the floor holding a soft couch and low table, bare feet sinking into a plush carpet. He looked nervous, although that might have been due to the screens of CCTV footage on the far wall. Mycroft saw Greg looking and pulled a remote from his trouser pocket. He clicked a button and the screens went black.   
“You’ve made my security men a bit antsy.” He said, turning away from Greg.  
“Well you should’ve spoken with me. You can’t keep hiding yourself away, Myc.” Greg said stepping forward. He reached a hand out, but dropped it as Mycroft’s shoulders tensed up.   
“Look. I’m willing to work on it. But I need a little effort, face to face, Mycroft. Phone conversations that weren’t finished because you got blown up aren’t exactly a great basis for any relationship.”  
Greg moved closer, less than arms length but still not touching.   
“We’ve known each other for years, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a thing for you from the first moment you grabbed me off the street and took me to that ridiculous warehouse. But Mycroft, I honestly need you to talk to me. We’ve never talked about anything that truly matters.”  
“You pulled me out.” Mycroft said, still facing away. “You played music to see if it would wake me. You sat and held my hand. You offered to stay with me so I could leave the hospital.”   
“Of course. You didn’t honestly think I would have left you in a burning building did you?”  
“It would have been the smart thing.” Mycroft whispered, and turned head down, taking Greg’s hands in his. He traced the new skin, still so sensitive where it had been burned. “You were hurt.”  
“That is an undeniable part of relationships, Mycroft. You get hurt. In more ways then one. But you work through it. Myc.”   
Mycroft whispered something, still looking down. Greg slipped his hands out and reached to tilt Mycroft’s face up, until their eyes were even and allowed his gaze to tell Mycroft all the things his words couldn’t. 

And whatever Mycroft read was enough. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s lips before pulling back slowly, searching for acceptance. Greg grasped the politician’s hand and led him to the couch. They sat, leaning into one another and Greg stroked Mycroft’s back as he began to talk, explaining his actions and asking for forgiveness.   
Mycroft talked and Greg listened. Greg joked and Mycroft laughed. Eventually the men curled up together, tangled up on the couch. They stopped talking and began to kiss, as couples do when there are no more words left to describe the overflow of feelings. Small nips of teeth, darts of tongue. Soft gusting sighs of breath when straying hands evoked reactions. Light moans when hands drifted over old scars and fresh wounds. Harsh gasps when one man was claimed by another in the most primal way possible. The sound of love letters marked with fingernails and teeth filled the air as the men twisted together on the couch. Forgiveness takes many forms.   
———————————

In the morning, the sun beamed through the hidden skylight and came to rest upon two men, one silver haired and awake, the other and slumbering.   
The detective was looking at the younger man, as the sun played in his hair. So when the younger stirred, and opened his eyes blinking in confusion, Greg leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his brow. 

“Good morning, Myc.”   
“Gregory.” Mycroft sat up, chest hair and freckles on display. Greg took in the picture appreciatively. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s cheek.   
“You slept well?”  
“Course Myc. Had you all wrapped around me.”   
“I have to work you know.”   
“Yes, I know.”   
“Could you, perhaps, let go of my waist then?”   
“Why?”   
“Because the British Government needs my services, and I’d rather deal with it now so I can get back into bed with you later tonight.”   
Mycroft pushed the blanket and Greg’s arm aside and clambered off the couch. As he walked past the coffee table, he bumped it, causing a small paperback to thud onto the floor.   
Mycroft darted forward as Greg reached down to pick it up.   
“Sorry, here let me just.”   
Greg ignored the hand reaching out for the book and flipped it over to read the title.   
“The Baron’s Bride?”  
“I’m not sure where that came from.” Mycroft said, still looking very proper despite the fact that he was naked and standing in the middle of a hidden room.   
“So you haven’t read this then?” Greg asked, glancing up at him. “Shame, I rather like this one.”  
Mycroft froze, blinking rapidly, before a smile broke out over his face.  
“Should I ask?”   
“My ex-wife started me on them.” Greg shrugged.  
“Sherlock thought it funny to send them. I started reading them out of spite when I was fifteen.”  
Greg barked out a laugh at that and shook his head, as Mycroft made his way out of the room, collecting his pants from the floor. 

“Mycroft Holmes, you are truly remarkable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my darlings, it has been so lovely.   
> One more chapter before I go, for we must end as we started.  
> I really hope you guys noted all the romance novel stuff I slipped in. I have a gross fascination with the things, and they are my guilty pleasure.  
> Please be on the look out for the upcoming Johnlock piece that goes with this and the Anthea X Donavon piece that will be added in as well. All of them follow the same universe.   
> If you love me leave comments or find me on tumblr: http://hums-happily.tumblr.com  
> I read everything, and respond nearly everything.   
> Bless you for sticking with me~


	16. And So They Lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so they lived.

“Sherlock! We are going to be late!” I watched on CCTV as John Watson shouted up the stairs of 221B. Turning over to the next screen I saw Greg standing at the doorway, a very excited Mrs.Hudson standing at the door. The next screen showed Mycroft Holmes pacing in a rose garden a few miles away from Baker Street, Sally Donavan at his side. My boss was nervous. I myself, shut down the bank of monitors in front of me and left, collecting my suit jacket on the way. Mycroft Holmes, scion of England and a man who holds a minor position in the British Government, was waiting for his fiancé to appear.  
John standing for Greg and Sherlock standing for Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson would be in attendance.  
It would be a small ceremony, only close family and friends present. Security was easier this way. Molly Hooper was in route along with Greg’s mother, father and very old Grandmother.  
It would be a beautiful ceremony. The rose garden was lovely and chairs were set along the blooming bushes. Small, but beautiful. To any passerby the ceremony would look unremarkable. No fancy flower arrangements, giant cake, or white silk tent. No doves would fly as the two men joined hands and pledged their love. But to any one in the circle of love that surrounded the two would know just how remarkable of a story it was.

Two men who had turned down death, followed two separate yet intertwining paths for years before finding each other. Two men who had nearly lost each other, because of flame and fearfulness. Two men who opened their eyes and saw for the first time, when it was nearly too late. Two men who filled the definition of soul mates in every way possible would be married today. Come hell or high water. Which we have planned for, in case either were to happen.  
My car pulled up and I exited. Sally and the others gathered looked pleased to see me. Mycroft looked as though he was going to call a state of emergency for the whole of London. John and Sherlock walked up taking their respective places, having arrived alongside me.  
Placing my hands on his shoulders, I turned him to face the car that had pulled into the lot.  
“Take a deep breath sir, and look at that man. He is here for you.” I moved forward to stand behind the altar.  
For once, Mycroft Holmes listened to me and froze in place to the left of the altar, eyes trained on the opening door. As Gregory Lestrade stepped out, the distance between the pair crackled with suppressed energy.  
Eyes trained on each other, Mycroft waited as Greg stepped down the aisle. As they joined hands, and I began to speak, a warm breeze drifted through the party. Rose petals caught in the caress swept past the pair, a supernatural blessing.  
Change is coming, and one day, one day, there will be equality for everyone. But for now, the tears running down Mycroft Holmes’ face was enough to prove to anyone who cared to see that love is a force to be reckoned with. Love of any type, as long as it is true.  
Love is what pulls us from the fires of our own devices and soothes our souls.  
And it is…..truly remarkable. 

~Anthea  
xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short Epilogue.  
> I really hope you have all enjoyed this and I really, really hope you'll stick around for the rest of the series.  
> I originally hadn't planned for this to become so long. It is my first full length fic and I'd love if any of you would care to leave a comment or review this, because I can do with all the help I can get. I can hardly believe I've finished and I know the whole thing does seem a bit rushed but I'm working on it my lovelies.  
> Thanks everyone for reading and commenting.  
> It really does warm my heart.  
> xx  
> Hums-Happily

**Author's Note:**

> I will apologize right away for the fact that this will be very slowly updated.  
> I have much of the thing people call "real life obligations"
> 
> Please leave kudos, comments, or just make faces at your computer screen.  
> Also, I love visits to my tumblr:  
> http://hums-happily.tumblr.com/
> 
> This work has not been beta-d so any mistakes are my own.  
> All characters etc. belong to respective owners, I just get to play. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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